Hannah Rinehart

Shirt stained and hair a mess
She is a mom at her best
The floor’s unmopped
The bed’s unmade
But for hours there she laid
Gazing into her baby’s eyes
Thinking of the future as she tries
To hold back the tears of what shall be
The husband must leave too suddenly
To work and provide for the ones he loves
Thankful for grace and the ever present Dove
She holds her daughter’s tiny hand as the two of them drift off to sleep

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