Precious stones that my mother

hid when no one was by,

each shone next to the other,

strung by prayer and sigh.

Two knots in her kerchief were

her secret signaling.

For me its white ends moved

like a bird with hidden wings.

Tender, compassionate,

she went by silently;

the memory falls on my heart

of her shining humility.

Her eyes bright with tears,

I kneel before my daughter,

and my mother’s precious stones

appear in the shining water.