The true extent of a mother’s love

Can never be known.

It can never be measured.

It can never be gauged.



The true extent of a mother’s love is joy

In all of its pure exaltations.

Screaming from the mountain tops

The pride that swells in her heart.



The true extent of a mother’s love is sorrow.

Mournfully, painfully sorrow.

Wailing into the wind,

Crying in the night.



The true extent of a mother’s love is ferocious.

In a volcanic explosion

Incinerating all

That dares to cross her path.



The true extent of a mother’s love is submission.

Turning nobility into *******.

Turning prosperous into beggar

For the sake of her child.



The true extend of a mother’s love is sacrifice.

The sacrifice of time, of wants, of love

To ensure her child

Never goes without those things.



The true extent of a mother’s love

Can never be known.

It can never be measured.

It can never be gauged.

I am extraordinary

In an ordinary way


I am mother, daughter, sister, aunt

Yet rarely am I me.



I am organized

In a disorganized way.

I am cold and stoic

Because I am overly-sensitive and empathetic.



I love literature

But hate to read.

I love music

Yet hate to practice.



I can fix computers

Yet hate to program.

I can change my oil

But hate to get my hands *****.



I am a jack of all trades

Yet a master of none.

I am still searching for what makes me unique.

Until then



I am simply just ordinary

In an extraordinary way.

I look to the moon

And stare into its yellow light

Hoping and wondering if it will divulge its secrets

And tell me of a woman long ago.

A mother, a wife crying in the light of its gaze.

But it sat quietly,

As I am sure it did back then,

Not uttering a sound.

Shining stoically as it watches over the Earth.

Not interfering.

Not comforting.

Not judging.

Simply watching.

A woman crying in the night.

C.M.Dunn