My mother tells a tale
Of the water and the rocks.
The water rushes cold on by
But leaves a small impression on
the firmament.
Only small, but over time, it builds up.

I think she's like the rock,
Strong and patient,
Strong and true,
And worth the time, the building up,
the wearing down.

So I'm there for her in a gentle way,
Flowing into her life, and out again,
and waiting.
Every gift I give, her smile grows.
Impressions on the firmament.

The rushing cold, one day will turn to warmth,
And pool in sunshine,
Pool in trusting little wells,
Puddles made amidst the rocky way,
Water warm amidst eroded stone.