To mothers that should be,
To mothers that would be,
to mothers that were and are not,
This mantle, this headpiece, this crown of light
This blanket, this girdle, this shawl of hand-woven warmth
falls onto few, fewer honor, fewer do it honor
Once this gauntlet is taken up, forever will it
hinder, protect, warm and cool
Children may come and go, live and die, but the
brand of motherhood is eternal, if hidden.
To those mothers of waiting, of loss, of hidden brands,
take heart for you are of the few hidden
forces of human nature, nurture, nexus.
The trunk of human life of buds never leafing,
of branches dry and empty, of blooms and seeds and
pock-mark scars of what once was,
Oh Motherhood- tree, with roots deep in
the rich earth, stands with or without bloom,
seed or leaf, but stands a testament to itself
To this arbor, to this canopy, to this barked
and branched pillar of life, endearment, and hurt
To thee I sing, hum, jump, dance, and shout,
To thee and thine I honor, respect,
and pay tribute with my heart and all that it is or was.
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