I. The Masterpiece I am an artist, and my hands have known The bold strokes of countless canvases I’ve painted, The dance of the brush and the colors I’ve sown, On surfaces white and by shadows untainted. But through all the oils and the visions I drew, Nothing came close to the masterpiece of you.

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When you first arrived, you bestowed in me The title of Mother, a sacred decree. My flesh and my blood, the universe in my lap, A wonder no map or no painting could trap. My joy knew no bounds, yet you were so thin— A fragile new sketch with the softest of skin. I handled your heart with the utmost care, The most beautiful work that I’ll ever share.

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II. The Growing Ten years flew by in a blink and a prayer, With patterns of strength in the clothes that you wear. No longer a baby, but holding my hand, A boy finding footing on shifting, bright sand. We stood side by side as the details grew deep, With promises made and with secrets to keep.

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III. The Leaving The gate stood wide open, the clock tower tall, You carried your bags through the high college wall. At seventeen, reaching for worlds on your own, The seeds of the spirit that we had both sown. I let go of your hand so that you could fly free, But the ink of our story still bound you to me.

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IV. The New Chapter White lace and promises, a wave and a smile, You walked with another for many a mile. A mother stands back as the circles expand, To see a new life being drawn by your hand. The mandala widens, the family grows, Through seasons of lilies and winter-white snows.

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V. The Full Circle The colors of the trees change as the weather turns, A law of nature that every artist learns. The hands that once tendered you with such care Are now weathered and grey, with a silvered hair. But then comes the knock I’ve awaited at my door— My life, my son, to share my load once more.

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Now fifty years gone, and the ink has turned grey, The sun sets in silver at the end of the day. It’s your turn to hold me, so fragile and old, Within the same patterns of silver and gold. Though the lines may be weathered, the beauty is clear: A lifetime of love in every year.