by Jess Burdette
A mothers work is lonesome, tiresome, and grim.
It’s beautiful, or so they say, from outside looking in.
Her fingers weaving constantly, emotions wearing thin,
One child needs help with this ‘n that, another starts pestering him.
“I’m hungry, mama” another cries, and all she sees is pain…
But then she looks and sees her angels’ faces once again.
The constant need of nourishment is nothing new to men;
And who supplies them manna is She who first birthed them.
Is She really oh so far that the eye cannot see,
Perhaps for those with ears to hear, She’s as close as She seems.
A mother’s work and love and touch can hardly be stayed;
For the little ones She loves so much, She’ll never go away.
