Mother

[Lake]

Mother

The nightstand lamp cast its soft light around us.
You opened the drawer, took out a newly matted
picture. Smiled shyly. The photographer could not
erase the marks from the years printed on your face,
but put a bridal veil over your then young smile.

There’s no woman who doesn’t love being beautiful.

In those days when the rain flooded streets,
wind pulled up tree roots, you were like
the sparrow under Turgenev’s pen, tucking
your fledglings under your wings till the torrents
drew back, the gale turned into a gentle hiss.

There’s no mother who doesn’t love her children.

I’ve written songs to mountains and rivers,
sun and moon, birds and flowers; I’ve written
tributes to my father, friends, and hometown.
You, an unceasing creek hidden in the forests,
murmurs, meanders, quietly along its course.

Yet, I have never dedicated to you a love song.
_________________
the trouble with poetry is that it encourages the writing of more poetry -- Billy Collins

[William Zhou周道模]

The emotion is so deep, the words are like prose.
_________________
诗歌是灵魂的歌唱.
周道模

[Lake]

Thanks William.

Point taken.
_________________
the trouble with poetry is that it encourages the writing of more poetry -- Billy Collins

[非马]

Lovely.
_________________
欢迎访问<非马艺术世界>
http://feima.yidian.org/bmz.htm

[kino]

看到屠格涅夫的麻雀，突然把我拽回到小时候，那时候母亲年轻漂亮，生活美好，充满阳光……

[justjust]

very sweet poem. I like it.