Mamma Giai, with hands of grace,
Wove warmth and stars in every space.
Her voice, a song the moon would keep,
A lullaby to soothe the deep.
She bore the weight of winds and skies,
With tender truth behind her eyes.
Each wrinkle spoke of storms she knew,
Yet bloomed with joy like morning dew.
In every pot of simmered care,
In herbs she grew with whispered prayer,
Lay healing not just for the bone—
But for the soul, when most alone.
Mamma Giai, with earth-stained feet,
Taught love in silence, soft and sweet.
She knew that strength is not all loud,
But sometimes crouched beneath a cloud.
She gave and gave, and asked for naught,
Except perhaps a kinder thought—
That we might see what she once saw:
That love, like seeds, grows best in awe.
So here’s to you, our guiding flame,
With grateful hearts we speak your name.
The world may change, the stars may fly,
But none shine bright as Mamma Giai.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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