Since it is going to be Mother's day on Sunday, I thought I'd share my poem about the divine mother. Here it is:
She is like an egg
all round and wobbly,
that silly dance, making
sense of space surrounding her.
She is rooted in her own navel,
soil pregnant with possibilities.
Her trunk, with rings infinite,
is proud to see the fruition of time;
when the wind picks up,
she sways smiling.
Her limbs stretch through creation
so that she may playfully place
crowns on all her children,
with no exception.
And when we fall
whether it be from floor fifteen,
from fascination, or from grace,
she is that perfect permanent pillow,
who swallows us whole
into her linen and feathers,
and then gently eases us
back to the surface
so that we may again take a look
at this bright, revolving world
that we had somehow forgotten how to see.