You Were Given

You were sewed into me, like the initials
Mother fastened to my childhood
sweater.  Even beneath
a pile of scarves and mittens,
the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking
package wrapped in skin, a growing
tremor, a terrifying wonder—and I was
your living envelope, your
place of origin.

You adorned me, stretched me,
and I was never happier.  But I made
a lonely decision: you would be
given; my arms would scarcely hold
you.  Before then,

we walked among blooming apples:
light green leaves fringed in pink;
discreet and prudent bees; my intentions
never questioned by the lively trees.

I spied a wedding at the pavilion:
bridesmaids and groomsmen smiling,
smoking perfect cigarettes
by the colonnade, pictures to be taken.

I pined to reach and pinch them,  to
stretch their skin and beat them,
to syncopate their laughter
with my wisdom.  But we kept

our cadence and our rhythm, like the rain
that fell as your due date came and went.
You finally appeared—and the rising
river crested—little hidden-to-me girl.

Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left
me wrestling your trace; your vestige
burned where you made the leap
from burdened skies to bent and wild boughs.

Fall arrived.  The park blustered
without you.  Rough oaks hardened
as their bright leaves released.
I bit my lips and tasted flesh torn
by my teeth.  I prayed

for autumn colors to depart
without pity.  I prayed to be like fired
pottery—no cracks, no weakness.
I prayed until an unforeseen reply
rolled toward me,

until an infant cry reached me
and scraped like a shard.
There was a sudden flash and strike;
I shuddered and waited
for the rumble that never came

as, somehow, I asked
the baby’s name.  A tiny hand stretched
forth.  The Mother hushed her parcel
and I spread myself over the stroller
like a faded, threadbare canopy.

Mother’s Day

Mother’s dress is flush with flowers,
lilies lush from April showers.
This fair day in middle May
nobles bend to praise her powers.

Silken crown, her fine array,
joins the wind in winsome play.
As she, quiet, greets the throng
every soldier quits the fray.

Firm she stands, lovely, strong,
weakened ones to fend from wrong.
Gems, her mouth pours forth, and gold.
Strangers, in her midst, belong.

Honor her both young and old.
May unspoken laud be told.
Let your lips with praise unfold.
Mothers, Mothers be extolled.

Mother

When mother you meet
you say something sweet and give her
a hug and a kiss, yes?
She birthed you and raised you,
chastised and praised you,
she always assumed you’d be best.

Distant or nigh, your mother
still sighs as she thinks of you
there by her breast,
when you were her darling, her
baby, a starling who flew,
oh so soon, from her nest.

Though you have moved on your
mother still longs, when she sees
the sun fade in the west,
to hoist you in love like the
wind ‘neath a dove lifts its wing
as it flies to its rest.

Consider your mother, the woman
who’d rather be laughed at and
told she’s a mess than to
look, but not see you,
hold, but not free you or
keep you from making your quest.