Mothers' Love
It rips at the soul the way only a mothers love could do.
The freshness of it is yet of the autumn dew.
Trees start to turn the colors of reds, yellows and orange.
And then is the sadness in which it comes. the first brown leaf being crumbled up and blowing away.
It becomes dirt and creates something new.
A little baby sprout is growing from it.
It carries but the very features she has.
One day too, she'll become like the freshness of the autumn dew.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Added by Poetry Lover
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