The floral bouquets sit on the table,
Arranged by a meticulous hand.
A tender and humble hand,
A hand I once held.
The floral bouquets, still preserving
Their color, impervious to time,
Free from decay.
A colorful pair of flower arrangements,
Independent from the hand who
Created them. Independent
From motherly hands of the past.
The flowers glow in the room,
And don’t know of old women’s wrinkly hands,
Or absent mothers, or lonely children.
A pair of floral bouquets, with the scent
Of motherly love, resisting to die.