Our mothers grow out of the earth. There is a coating of dirt around her embrace, Soil and grit creeping into familiar skin, Mud-licked kisses brushing against dusty cheeks. We sew seeds here, beneath consecrated ground. Bulbs and sprouts, asleep beneath this bodily blanket, This covering of warmth and woman, A maternal sigh beneath our kindred sky. I see you in the garden, kneels to the ground Praying with healing hands to the barren clay. In springs to come there will be flowers here, Tulips and lilies listening to your earthly murmurs, Blossoming and blooming in defiance of the wind. These days, our mothers make the earth grow. With soft fingers and stronger hearts, Coaxing seedlings out of their shells, singing ‘This ground is not of man grown, but of women sewn.
‘Mother Earth’ For my mother, on mother’s day.