Mothering

A poetic reflection in anticipation of Mother’s Day

From my childhood (alack, sometimes still) wishing and wanting,
now, lo, to and through these many years,
watching and witnessing the wishing and wanting of others,
this, it seems to me, is what mothers do…

Design homes for their children
(whether borne from their wombs or bestowed from others,
their children).

Homes, the seeds of hope’s dreaming,
then built, the fruits of faith’s intention,
and wisdom’s intuition with:

foundations firm on which,
in confidence,
to test, to stand;
on which curiosity, adored, dances
and questions are respected,
expected;
thus, “Why?”, deemed a favored word,
oft implored to be heard;

walls on which hang the portraits of history and memory,
the remembrance and counsel of which ground the imagination of young eyes
when peering through windows of contemplation
abroad onto the wider world of experiment’s anticipation
and soon-enough-to-be discovery’s own experience;

ceilings, not of limitation,
but of protection from life’s elemental forces of hurt
and toward which to gaze
projecting visions of exploration,
and trusting the presence of infinite cosmos, above and beyond,
thus, learning, knowing,
alway recalling
that one’s self is ne’er the highest point.

This, among manifold things,
is what mothers do;
creating homes in which children
(as they [mayhaps wishing and wanting] were afore)
evermore will abide in the heart of love’s care.