In each of her freckle
there lies a story,
something she has yet to tell me
something she has yet to unveil.
Her heavy eyes, have borne too many dreams
too many to reckon
but not one she dreamt for herself.
Her grey and black pastel cascade,
still as beautiful as her aged heart,
flow below her shoulders like a fairytale
that she tucks behind in bun
just like she keeps collected from the start
all the realities that weigh her down
forming a clog in her gentle heart.
She speaks to me of the days of her past,
and narrates to me everything that makes us smile,
but seldom does she unravel the stories
that caused her to cry.
I have a way with reading her lightened eyes
and a way with finding words
through her resonating silence
and she knows I do.
So she smiles weakly and opens up to me, all through.
A mother before any other,
her heart has been to me.
She knows the language my silence speaks.
I have always found solace in her arms
feeble, even as they are like a feather
they hold all of me together