My Mother, to Me

No, she wasn't lavish with words of high praise
Her views black and white with no room left for grays
Self-centered, too sensitive, moody times three
And my dearest friend, was
my Mother, to me.

She wasn't the life of the party, it's true
She'd sit on the sidelines and analyze you
A gifted perfectionist, definitely,
A mentor I prized, was
my Mother, to me.

Oh, she saw right through me, no sense to pretend
A quick judge of character ~ true, loyal friend
A rock I could lean on, an anchor was she
A treasure most dear, was
my Mother, to me.

Now there's something missing that I can't replace
It's more than her laughter, her voice or her face
For she gave my heart dreams
of what I could be,
This lady, I loved, was
my Mother, to me.

- Connie Hinnen Cook -

Her children arise up,
and call her blessed..."
(Proverbs 30:28a, KJV)

[ by: Connie Hinnen Cook © 2004 (cjcook@mynewroads.com) -- from Connie Hinnen Cook ]