The Epitome Of Love

"My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."     

                                                                                                               -  Mark Twain

Mischief is what I excel at,

Undeniably, by nature, I am a brat,

Running around, being as playful as a kitten,

And that patient soul chasing, having worn a mitten.

Up before the sun,

She's always on the run,
Right on time, she prepares our meal,
Satisfied, she ever makes me feel.


Her arms, comprising of tenderness,

When cuddled with, make me forget every speck of forlornness.

Her lap makes the most comfortable spot,

For my head to be laid and every worriment to rot.


If she's in trouble, hard to find out, no matter how deep you probe,
A smile being her favourite, of all elements in her wardrobe;
Give her a problem, even if it is as hard as sun-dried clay,
She'll still wear a smile and show you that for her it's just child's play.

A remarkable cook she is, can prepare every dish,

Every bite, for sure, you would relish.
Any cuisine, she gives it her own extraordinary touch,
Incomparable;  every nook  and corner searched as much.

Never on her face will you see a frown,

But when her beloveds fall ill, she'll bring the roof down.
She is the personification of care and concern,
Sacrifices everything and expects nothing in return.


Be it a lioness and her cub or a doe and her fawn,
A mother and child's relationship is the best, ever born,
She's always there for you, helping you soar above,
She is nothing but The Epitome Of Love.