Ma belle mère, 
my mother divine.

Lost in the mists of time;
lost but quickly found
when the memories rush back
into my aging mind,
still her 
little boy.

I was her first born,
her love child,
and her favorite,
so they all believed.

They were right,
of course.

I was her baby,
the perfect child,
without blemish,
but a tad bit too sure of his place.

Many faults,
but few seen by her,
as she glowed with joy,
and praised us with her smiles.

Raising her child,
and her children, alone much of the time,
having lost that first love
to beer and youth and pride.

Harsh truths faced and conquered,
as so many down on their luck often do.

Working the labors of the poor, 
struggling to do their best for themselves,
and the children touched by her love.

Serving the world food,
cooking the meals for the workers,
canning the goods to be shipped out,
doing what was needed to survive.

To survive,
that her children might thrive.

And we did so,
through the efforts of her, our lode star.

Ma belle mère,
my lovely French mother,
our Mom.

Lost in the mists of time,
but her passing was observed,
observed by all her children,
gathered there to honor,
to touch once more,
to caress and express our love.

And honor her.

We honor her once more, 
scattering the mists from our eyes,
from our memories,
to remember the one who loved unconditionally,
and forever,
even now, while lost in the mists of time.

Though tears may come
with the remembrance of things past,
let them come,
and let us wipe them away,
and smile,
as we honor her once more.