On Motherhood
I built a house seldom heard and seldom seen
Out of branches of wicker, long and tough.
Flexible and strong, my back bends forward towards the future
Tying knots, holding fast together the seams.
Sometimes after a rainstorm, my windows are too dirty
to see the bowed peach tree laden and full, touching the ground.
I see the garish new gate, water reflecting off the new paint
and open my lips in an O to question without sound.
Who stands in the space between the two doors?
The garden between the house and the gate is in bloom, full and lush
I give birth to my two girls, in the toil of the soil and sun.
Closing in on thirty, fast approaching aged youthful blush.
I stood outside the window looking in, my reflection
apparent and transparent: a multiplicity of three.
In sacred space, they grow and thrive, aside the outside.
Their curls golden and bright, reflecting off the door at night.
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