Is this billowing surge of warmth what
each mother feels, as she tilts her head skywards?
To wonderingly look upon her son face
as he stands steadily approaching his threshold?

The cherubs cheeks so flushed with laughter,
damp with abundant kisses or tears.
Now so lean and strong, hinting of wiskers,
just barely concealing more tender years.

If one tries hard enough can they still hear
the wee voice of childish wonder?
When the tenor has deepend forever
his larger hand grasping firmly manhood's door.

Is the need to weep, yet sing with joy,
what each mother feels, as she tilts her head skywards?
To place a damp kiss on her son's bearded face,
as he gallently crosses the threshold.

MY SON DANIEL, 2yrs ago AT 21

Written by Sharon Adams

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