Other Mother’s MonDay…


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.

For my wife, on Mother’s Day

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.