by Charles Eric Carroll
Like the painter’s canvas the baby lies there blank and bare,
Waiting for its mother’s love to give it life, to give it air.
Like the painter’s brush she strokes ever so gently,
She paints her masterpiece with love, from her heart, unconditionally.
Like the painter’s brush her every stroke is filled with purpose and fondness,
She creates this being, through love, a love of which is tireless.
Like the painter’s brush paints reds, blues and greens,
She, like the painter knows this child, knows what he needs.
Like the painter’s brushstrokes which adds colors to the canvas,
She creates life and tries to fill it with happiness.
Like the painter’s colors on the canvas cannot be erased,
Her love for the child in her heart is forever encased.
Last updated November 06, 2014