The garden of life is ephemeral,
Growing through the loam of time.
As flowers bloom but for a moment,
Fleeting, although utterly sublime.
A mother groans with pain, then sighs,
As her babe utters her first breath.
Nurtures and tends to her every need,
Budding knowledge refined by wisdom's depth.
As years stretch, marching onward,
And ever only by God's abiding grace,
The roles, once so clearly defined, suddenly reverse.
The now-elderly mother has taken her child's place.
The garden-tending falls to her daughter,
Who now must make decisions on her behalf.
Sometimes, the silent weight crushes her heart.
Other times, they still sit together and laugh.
A relationship cultivated with great care,
Blossomed with redolent bouquets.
The child, a woman, strong and secure:
A vessel shaped from her mother's days.
Whether life's season is long or short,
We must all one day answer death's call.
And sitting at the deathbed of one's mother,
Itself is one of the deepest griefs of all.
May the Heavenly Father embrace each mother,
Who instead, finds it the other way around:
May she find His arms tightly surround her,
As she lowers her child into the ground.
Surely, the garden would stop flourishing.
Grief makes us feel that *all* of life is dead.
And yet, the garden keeps relentlessly growing,
sprouting new leaves and forging on ahead.
Oh, may we each grow in grace!
May we honor each other within God's call,
To love one another deeply and truly,
And to love *Him* most of all.
The garden must keep on producing.
Time will never cease to pass.
May the Lord's love bless and guide us,
From our first breath to our very last.
