Just as far back as I can remember
There were roses into September,
Just below the kitchen window outside
Bloomed my mother's colorful pride.
In the tiniest garden her roses grew
So beautiful though precious few,
Below that window was her treasure,
It was roses that gave her pleasure.
The delights she had in life were rare
There is no joy if cupboards are bare,
Struggling to feed her family was hard
But she had those roses in the yard.
Roses were her pastime in hard times,
When we were counting our last dimes,
As troubles around her would harden
We could hear singing in her garden.
Old hymns she sang in a sweet voice
As she took a beautiful rose of choice,
Placing that rose on the table in a jar
Lent beauty to a meal that didn't go far.
It wasn't just a rose in a fruit jar there
It was love from mother showing care,
She gave a rose each day with devotion
And so much love it would fill an ocean.
As the season for roses rolled around
I knew where mother could be found,
Just follow the sounds of sweet singing
To where beautiful roses are springing.
The old home place barely stands today
And precious mother has passed away
But I know in my heart each time I pray
She grows roses for The Master's bouquet.
Mother's Rose © Written by: Kenneth J. Ellison 10-25-09
Photos from Steven and Becca's yard.