Fleeting

I am cultivating a garden fair;
With blooms so lovely and so rare.
Faithfully I tend to the daily needs;
In this unremitting fight in the Battle of the Weeds.
Though in this journey I grow weary, for the end seems always off afar;

Yet this truth I must believe: that this all, too soon, shall pass.

At present, the journey seems without end.
Yet faintly, I hear the truth that they are here, with me, merely on lend.
Yes, soon she'll be walking an aisle
Where just yesterday I kissed her little face and held her little hand.
Yes, his boots will soon outgrow my feet
And he'll be rummaging relentlessly for something more to eat.
Oh, little one with hopeful, smiling eyes and soft, needy hands;
Let me hold your gaze a little longer and hold your hand a little tighter,

For I am painfully aware that this all too soon shall pass.

They are but visitors stopping by my home
For a short repose before moving on to lands they'll call their own.
They are precious blossoms in my garden that soon will fade away;
For can the lilac bloom past the early spring? And can the lily linger longer than the day?
Precious blooms of magnificent artistry and design;
A season short with possibilities divine!
I relish in their company, their beauty, and the wonder of it all,
As I cry to know

That this all, too soon, shall pass...
Oh, I say, this all, too soon, has passed.

     This poem was begun when my four little lambs were the ages of 10-17. Precious, precious are the times that are no more. Weary mother, breathe deeply the air of memories being cast, of days made alive with noise and clutter and questions and battles of the wills.
     This season of home-life, of the formation of your family circle, is a turbulent time; wild, full of emotional highs and lows. In it you see the best of you and the worst of you, all the while your children are assimilating this whole atmosphere of you. Daily they imbibe the ideas of love, of fidelity, of mastery and of God by observing you. Your tones, your attitudes, your actions, your reactions speak to them in volumes recorded on their soul.
     Tread carefully, tread mindfully through this land of young motherhood. Treasure this fleeting season where your influence is most profound.

Signed,
One who is seeing where the road ends