We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!

But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.

They come in many shapes, sizes, and hues,
Teachers of manners- lacers of shoes,
The mighty warlords of the weekend soccer teams,
The coke bottle glasses and mom jeans,
All knowing mystics- eyes in the back of their heads,
Nightlights, adversaries to the monsters under our beds,
The overtime working, on call, after hours,
Who speak with fireworks and flowers,
The ones who foster the big and little ones,
Be it by blood or choice, be us daughters or sons,
The field medic to the bloodied nose, scraped knee, reckless,
The magic kingdom’s queen, paper mache crown, macaroni necklace,
God flows through her ways, bleeds out His kindness,
He gave us all the mommas to remind us,
That though we will pass them by,
That we will, ourselves, have little shoes to tie,
Though we have but a short time to share,
As the roles reverse, and gray eats her hair,
God gave us things like comfort and mom’s embrace,
Like billboards calling us towards His sweet grace,
To teach us of His perfect love, unconditional and so good,
Oh the gift, responsibility, trial, and beauty of motherhood.