Mother's Day

The way of the mother 

I drift through the kitchen

An enchantress.

Hair hanging long,

the lines upon my face even longer.

I tend a finger, Dry a dish, 

answer questions about hidden chocolate,

About how much sugar the bees need.

There is a young one humming,

A rattle of the cat bowl,

An unsatisfied infant wanting milk.

Now...not in a moment.

I am the river, which flows between things, 

with watery fingers reaching, touching, discerning the next place 

to cascade, envelop, or create still pools.

This is but a few minutes in a lifetime,

but continues far beyond my lifetime in my granddaughters arms, 

in my nieces belly, 

in the sling on my future daughter-in-law's back.

It is the way of the mother. 

The Zen breaststroke of continuous movement, 

never failing to create beauty, never stopping, yes, never stopping.

There is no stop to the fluidity of love.

It is all there is. So empty. 

It is all there is. Soul filling. 

It is all in how you look at it,

The way the particular light coming through the particular window shines on your life that day.

The grandmothers know.

You are the lens, 

You are the filter, 

You are the prism,

The enchantress that can make rainbows from tears and light.

-Artemis Mandala