Mother

Her sound is of births of autumn and warm eyes cooing cries to rest.
Honeyed iris in the sunburst.
A gallant bear and gentle bird.
Dutiful wings hum with the day's flowering youth.
Evening dreams to set her roots further—her quietude is coming.
Golden streams upon her pillow carry thoughts of loyalty—a current of crisp and purity.
A brood settles beneath her wings of snowplume and down.
Her earth's level plain beneath sober steps—a pulse from its core she's synced.
Fear has often seen her face to be silenced.
Ginger and saffron infuse her livening tones with her cheeks alight in laughter.
A welcoming trove is her home—a discovery of all senses.
This steady torch ever blushing its rays.
This unassuming beauty of an early September's midday.