She is Still My Mother

She is still my mother
Though the world has changed its pace,
She walked with grace, unhurried,
In faith’s quiet embrace.

She knew hunger but fed others,
Knew silence yet raised her voice,
Knew struggle but bore laughter,
As if it were her choice.

With hands that held the heavens
When she held a crying child,
She turned pain into prayers,
And correction into mild.

From Africa’s warm soil
To the world’s hurried stage,
She planted strength and wisdom
That won’t be lost with age.

Yet still cherished decades after her departure from our midst.

She is still my mother—
Not just a woman, but a flame,
The kind that lights generations,
While never asking fame.

To All the Women Who Mothered

To all the women who mothered—
Not just the ones who birthed,
But those who filled in quiet spaces
And gave our souls its worth.

To the aunties, teachers, neighbors,
Who checked our scraped-up knees,
To the ones who asked if we’d eaten,
Or prayed for our silent pleas.

To the mother I didn’t grow up with—
Still, you lived in my veins,
In the shape of my hands,
And the echo of my name.

You weren’t there in the daily noise,
But I knew you bore the cost.
And though the years moved swiftly on,
Your absence is not lost.

So this is for all the mothers—
By blood, by love, by grace—
You built something eternal,
Even from a distant place.

Happy Mother’s Day to me, too, you and all wherever you may be.

We love you. God bless you.