There's a torn and dog-eared corner of my heart's leaf,
Whereupon such truths of womanhood are writ
That are handed down, each mother to each daughter,
Although distilled by each, as we see fit.
They are the oath and measure of our wisdom,
Of lessons learned, hopes dashed and battles lost,
And the foresight that each woman who succeeds us
Will shoulder lesser ills at greater cost.
We dismissed our mother's warnings, thought them futile,
Their lives but pale comparisons of ours.
And when we're called to show our due devotion
We honour then with afterthought and flowers.
But now I am a mother to a daughter
Who will grasp the sterling truth before too long
That a mother's love is like a mother's wisdom
Freely given, often tested, rarely wrong.
