7 SEP 2021
A womb that's borne no children, Two breasts that yield no milk. How can I be woman? I'm just a child of older ilk.
A fortune that's not chosen, And a fortune come of will. Indecision and delusions Have pushed me up this fruitless hill.
I see it in the many Strong mothers that I know, There's something different 'bout them When in their bellies, babies grow.
A wisdom found beyond their years, Pure patience at its best. An unfamiliar fortitude, They never get a moment's rest.
O, the mother, she's a worldly thing, And often she's unseen. For her sacrifice is lonesome But her instinct's sharply keen.
She does her best at every turn, For her flesh, her blood and bone. She too has not been here before But she sets a stoic tone.
She nurtures youth and innocence, She lends a steady hand. She tolerates frustrations 'Cause her love's in fast demand.
She screams into her pillow When she needs a moment's peace. She's tired and she's restless On her plans, she lays a quiet wreath.
Her goodness leaves me speechless, Her patience is a gift. How could we ever forget To give gratitude so swift?
My mama, she still teaches me, Her tenderness can't be replaced. Her kisses soothe my little heart And safety is her face.
And now, my little sister, Well, she's so gentle and so fair. A mother of all mothers With her grace and loving flair.
What rapture to know these women, And all the mums I count as frens. They make my life spectacular With the blossoms that they tend.
Photo by guille pozzi