I wrote this for my wife, the beautiful mother of my beautiful daughter, but I offer it up. A Mother's Day poem for all the nurturers.
Mystery This is the mother’s month, the month of the morning of the year when the earth begins its cycle song. Here is the mother’s milk where we always knew it was, where we leave it as we found it, as it found our mouths without looking, as it gave what could only be given, being what could only be once, though it is again and again beginning. Here is the new-turned leaf, face to the sun, brilliant in the warmth, lobes spread wide to catch the day. Here is the heart of the wood, where would will only find will, where only heart can know heart, be still and still be.