She is the cause of all things tender in my memories. She is ever constant and ever present. She jests, chastises and forgives like good old priest. She smells of earth that wronged her hands and sometimes of spring. She sounds of what twinkling star would if they could. Her wrinkles are like a terrain I can sleep on. Her kisses sweet like a sun rise. Her embrace warm like a soup. Having witnessed few of her miseries, it's a wonder how tall she still stands. There is a strength in her that no time had withered. She loves ever so gently even after all the betrayal. She laughs ever so loudly as if she never met misery. My mother is who poets meant when they said goddess. She is not of this world, yet even Heaven is too dim for her light.