SweetLittleHouse: Where, oh where, would we be without our mothers?

You, too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor - Robert Louis Stevenson

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift - not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-toned lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even - Billy Collins

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry in the dark - Carl Sandburg

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses - e.e.cummings

Alas...no roses yet, but take a gander at those quince

One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my lodestar while I go and come
And so, because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name- Christina Rossetti

My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures--
the mouse and the swift--will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late - Mark Strand