A Mother’s Love
by Cheryl Miller

Green willows billow with cloudy skies.
She hears silent tears evaporate,
attends to ponderosa sighs,
and listens as spruce elaborate.

She cherishes scents of autumn’s oak
no less than those of blooming peach.
Crimson camouflage, maple’s cloak,
she favors no more than snowy beech.

Scaly alpines, twisted and old,
like ancient snakes they rub her shins.
Saplings grappling for a hold …
she harbors all arborescent kin.

She judges not with fond embrace
but holds each stark – or luscious – face.



 

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