I wrote this poem in 1992, when my mother was going under surgery for cancer. She is now 87 and cancer-free.
Her face is no longer smooth,
it is lined by time.
Even if she doesn't look the same,
she is still that dear mother of mine.
she has always given of herself to me,
nothing was I ever denied.
She laughed when I laughed,
she comforted me when I cried.
There is no one like her,
I don't think there will ever be.
No one means as much to me,
as she.
To me, it doesn't matter what she looks like,
I guess it is a matter of pride.
For the things that make her the most beautiful,
are the things she has inside.