The Dream of Love

By Molly S. Miller

Mother’s cheek against my own

Was silken as the early touch of morning;

Like heady spikes of light

Splintered in the prism lamp,

The melody she hummed

Spun in dizzy splendor

Round the golden thread

Of arms that safe encompassed me.

Upon her lap my urgent hurts

And awkward strivings seemed to melt,

Untangled in her tender, knowing eyes.

Such was the mother I ever longed for,

Ever missed.

Mine, bereft of gospel truth,

Embittered by the barter

Of her lifeblood spent

For our shoes and bread,

Bequeathed instead

Her icy self-reliance;

Too late I knew the worth of her

Hard, unflinching love—

Practical gifts of work and sustenance,

Silent hours of groping worry,

Ringing absences of soft and lovely things

Her breeding almost taught her how

To do without.

Now, as tiny arms enfold me,

As bright eyes see and pattern all I do,

My soul trembles as I shape

The legacy that I shall leave.

I kneel to Him who fills the darkest void,

That I may give the tools of life,

And too, against the storm,

The dream of love.