A mother sits by her cradled child,
A Sunday sun warms the moment mild.
She sings lullabies and at storytime,
Reads fairy tales and nursery rhymes.
Pictures are painted with a tender voice,
Memories are made, lasting and choice.
Though the little one understands not a word being said,
It’s the love that is heard, not the words that are read.
Down through the ages the scene will abide,
Of a small cooing babe and a mother beside.
Now look even closer at this mother petite,
No ring on her finger! Shoes? On the wrong feet!
And she can’t really read to the child that we see,
But we smile ’cause the child is a doll and the mother’s just three!
The pages are turned by a little girl,
Acting so motherly in her make-believe world.
She’s learned by example and been endowed from above,
It seems very natural, this motherly love.
And so with turning pages we shall see,
That soon little girls will mothers be!