A Mother’s Love

Pink are the carnations which bloom
From the grief of the one in favor.
Her tears soften the cracked clay,
And in the reflection of their pools,
A babe pink from pinches glows.

She stands stricken as her Son,
Descending into that blazing furnace,
Sees in a glimmer of her waters,
A pink heart pounded by penance.
He is cloaked by a pale rose robe.

Pink is the sunrise of her thoughts
As she ponders these things
On her first day without Him.
Knowing that He is still there,
Pink scents of spices fill the air.

As bouquets bud for those three days,
Pink is the gentle memory perfusing her.
She remembers the sound of a soft breath
In the silence of that first still night,
And he is pleased by her pink plight.

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