From this heart comes the love for my children.
I look at Larien, my Aphrodite, and warmth envelops me. Imagine an aura of yellow surrounding me with shafts of sunlight filtering through whatever clouds cover my sky.
Inwe, my Athena, goddess of wisdom and the moon, gives me peace and serenity when she is near. My glow is silver-blue, more like a mist than a sunburst.
My infant son, Finwe, gives me a milky white aura as all my babies have while they were young. The white is like a sea, splashing waves upon my shores. The noise calms and energizes me, like a constant meditative state. I can reach nirvana while in his glow. What color will my love acquire as he ages? The answer will unfold gradually as he asserts his personality against mine.
You might expect a poem relating a mother's love, but I shall not follow that path. It is too personal for me. I will instead give you some Shakespeare.
The Seven Ages of Man
By William Shakespeare, from As You Like It
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward a childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.