E’er True

E’er True

a poem to my mother

on your birthday of December 30, 2010

from your youngest son.

A word for my mother on this day of all days—

It seems tradition, a bit, these syllables I say,

To dip and flow in meter and rhyme—

My thoughts, for you, a smooth pantomime.

Remembering past, recalling your worth,

That I’ve basked in and grown in, ever since birth.

I haven’t loved well, I’m the first to admit;

But learning to love is a task never quit.

I dream that one day I’ll perfect my attempts,

That perhaps into love might I invest my vehemence.

We’ve eternity to practice, to discover the new—

Mother, dream this—know it e’er to be true.

And while painful lows may have darkened our past;

Though jumbled roots tripped us, and left us aghast—

That though we may fight quarrel bicker days dusk,

That though we each feel our chastisement unjust,

Mother, hope this—know it e’er to be true;

Relationship, love—is a dance through and through…

This is the great beauty in the dance we call life

The unknown, unpredicted—despite fear of strife;

For though strife catch all, and dark despair ensues—

Mother, weep this—know it e’er to be true;

The brokenness of love is in its freedom to break,

A most vulnerable beauty that breath ever did take.

And despite cracked crevasses that dot this life dear,

Despite the aloneness that pushes so near—

Mother, pray this—know it e’er to be true;

That love, its footsteps so sacrificingly hued,

Overcomes every quandary and problem foretold;

That in loving, we put forth the best and the bold.

I pray upon all us the beauty love knew.

Mother, cherish this—know it e’er to be true;

The artist’s next brush stroke is but guess to the canvas,

And thus frees the joy of wondered, awed madness.

Potential—the future—but a gift that we share,

To venture in brush strokes toward ever e’er.