In the secret hall of dreams
I see my mother’s hand
Floating on a breeze
Gliding over sunflowers
On the mountain where she lives
And wild grasses on the alpine
Bend and bow
As she moves by.
Her hand is thin and wrinkled,
Knotted, misshapen with age
Yet she holds her brush steadfast
Above the canvas
Painting to honor that mountain
The soul of the earth
Her Mother.
Jesse
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