A quick twitter-like message about Mother's Day (But at the beginning of the day before an adequate time to meditate on the greatness of {as Dostoevsky in Poor Folk had the protagonist refer to the love of his life...}_as I say my Little Mother.)
This is an American Haiku (7,11,7 syllable scheme; bring nature or creation into the word picture; add some element as appropriate): Here is a grouped series.
Oh Little Mother of mine,
Like a red, red, rose, or a sweet kind brandy-wine,
A pillar of all the good.
How lush our sacred garden,
In green, green walls, Doors of Paradise opened,
Precepts drop from your sweet mouth.
Colorful, floating, burst free,
Life casts off the bonds of earth, past the round sea,
Souls riding the words of life.
Mercy's image in my wife,
Sweetly singing around, quickly ending strife,
Music-shaped, this gnarled pine.
I rise with you my love,
Through golden, blue skies, soaring, fluttering dove.
Aloft, incense vanishes.
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