A Mothers Day Reflection
(For my mother,
of blessed memory)

From Adams rib
she first appeared,
bearing us all,
one following

another, coddled
in that marvelous
sanctum until
its time to take

our place, unique,
among the rest;
then, Miracle-Grod
and watered

we learn to stand
and walk alone,
untethered, even
into the night.

But at times we sit
in the shadows,
eyes closed, remembering
the bosoms softness.