It’s Mother’s Day.

The day we all call home.

The mother calls us in

like chicks under her wing

her taks is eternal - never at

an end.

Does she tire?

Does she say: Enough

Perhaps, perhaps - and yet

and energy beyond her buoys her up

Year in, year out

Season of Winter, Summer, Spring, Autumn

They all go constellating around

her - and she holds

She holds and she grows

Good things for her children

Food for lunches, kisses for pains

Washing for little bodies

bed sheets for wet beds.

But beyond her children

the mother grows along side her adulting brood

Finds a different glow in the empty nest

A space for herself to reflect and grow

Call upon her own mother -

The one inside her who perhaps

never spoke up till now -

Giving her rest, without reserve.