She’s a kind of art,
A beauty with no bounds of imagery.

She shows up like a poem that doesn’t ask to be read,
Her beauty tucked away in quiet metaphors,
The kind not everyone’s meant to get.

She’s a poem with her own language,
Simple on purpose, hoping to be understood.

She’s a kind of beauty that protects.
In every little thing she says,
I learn what it means to be human.

"Mother" that’s what I’ve always called her.