THINGS AT HOME: "Sweeping Love"

In cornered rooms and hallways long, a broom, our mothers' steady song, with bristles worn and handles plain, she swept away both dust and pain.

In the morning's light, she'd rise to meet, The task of keeping floors so neat, each stroke a dance, a whispered hum, a rhythm of the home she'd drum. She swept not just the dirt away, but worries about another day. In each sweep, with tender care, her love for us was always there. The broom, a simple, humble tool, was in her hands; it made things whole. Binding us with every sweep, in tidy rooms, her love runs deep. For in the sweep of bristles, she shaped a home, A mother's touch, With every sweep, our hearts knew.

Photograph by tobydphotographer