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.
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.
This hand I hold within my own
holds the man that I have become,
holds the pieces of who I am,
takes them gently in and holds them
close, close as flesh is close to bone.
This hand I hold is the hand that
I will grow old holding onto.
We will sew dreams into our seems
with this hand, one smaller hand, and
my own--all I need to call my own.
A Happy Mother's Day to all.