parenting,  poetry

On Mother’s Day

It is calm.
Outside, a cool shower
is freshening the world.
The birds are quiet,
Nesting over their young,
Prioritizing protection over singing,
over making themselves known.

My own are upstairs, nestled in our bed,
silent except for the
gentle swell of their breathing.
When they awake,
the calmness will break,
and a flourish of life
will take its place.

Today, I am to be recognized,
for having given birth;
for continuing on Eve’s legacy;
for attempting to raise children
who will somehow
contribute sweetly to the
great symphony of life.

This duty,
which is paradoxically both
magnificent and mundane,
cannot be fully appreciated
by anyone who has not felt
the same burden
rest on her shoulders.

On this day,
we long for someone, anyone,
to look at us with reverent eyes and say,
“I know your effort, your sacrifice,
your suffering, your triumphs,
your heart. I see you.
And I thank you.”

With or without recognition, though,
we will continue to doing what we are doing.
We will continue to work and sacrifice
and suffer and improve and care.
Not because we perfect or selfless,
or stubborn or proud,
but because we love our children.

Only God and I know how
being a mother has cost me.
Only God and I know how
being a mother has blessed me.
Sitting quietly, unrecognized
by the world is a spiritual act.
But my children; they know me.

The birds sing quietly, now,
and I hear my children crying out for me.
I rise and go to them,
And I hold them close.
I do not need them to thank me.
I only need to do
What it is my duty to do.

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