This letter that I read tonight is write the whole world over
It always starts with the same first line
My dearest darling daughter.
She wasn't eight or even ten
She didn't even bloom
in fact this daughter never lived outside her mother's womb.
Yet this letter it is written same date, same time each year,
with dignity and passion, each line is crystal clear.
"Sweet Peas I think you'd like this year,"
They’re colourful and bright
the way that I imagine you when I close my eyes each night.
This letter can go on for days, and even into nights,
until another phase comes by and moves it out of sight.
The letter it is never signed or never will be read,
because that letter that I read about
remains inside that mothers head.