Born in a family that moved around.
Her dad searched for the job he never found.
She married a farmer of meager means
And their diet was not much more than beans.
My mother.
She raised seven children with love and care
and there were times all she had was prayer.
She spread her love evenly to each child
When things were hectic she always smiled.
My mother.
She was a young widow at forty-four
But she trusted her faith all the more.
She tried to be both mother and dad
and cheered her children when she was so sad.
My mother.
At death she was poor like when she was born
and she found her private way to mourn.
Because she never had much on this earth
Her life in heaven must be filled with mirth.
My mother.
When I think of her with fondness each May
I never miss the chance I have to pray
and thank my God for such a humble soul
and search for the words her love to extol.
My mother.
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Newfie Hugs, Rose
Georg