You Were Given

 

You were sewed into me, like 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: green leaves fringed in pink,
          discreet and prudent bees.  We were never questioned by the trees.

          I spied a wedding at the pavilion: bridesmaids and groomsmen smiled
          and smoked cigarettes by the colonnade.  They were 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.
          Then you appeared—and the rising river crested—my hidden-to-me girl.

          Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left me wrestling your trace.
          Your vestige burned where you leapt down to my boughs.   

When fall arrived, the park blustered.  The oaks hardened and released
their bright leaves.  I bit my lips and salt dried on my cheeks. 

I prayed for autumn to depart without pity.  I prayed to be like fired pottery. 
I prayed…and an unforeseen reply rolled toward me.  From the sidewalk

an infant cry scraped me.  I shuddered at the sudden flash and strike,
but stayed and waited until a distant rumbled comfort finally came.

Somehow, I asked the baby’s name.  A tiny hand raised.  The Mother
hushed her parcel.  And I stretched myself over the stroller—like a 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.