She is beautiful, yes she be.

She is wonderful, underneath.

This is for she who knows,

for she I know, have known,

and will, for how long, I don’t.


This is for she who walks

in a soft-shell, hardened heart

of happy unhappiness.

Proving powerless to toil

an upbringing. Doing to do,

in responsibility to a legacy

wrought with pain

and life’s misery.


She who lights lives with

the attention of a mother’s bosom,

ample enough to nourish the world,

for her children are all.

And all come for nursing.

All come for counsel and kindness,

for understanding to the brick house

that stands down the lane,

where she resides.


A doldrums in a sea of storms.

An eye in the chaos of turmoil.

A flicker in the darkness of a cave,

she hides.

A green mother’s sanctuary,

an Eden to all.


She is a goddess, but she knows not.

She is Eve, the first mother

that tempts her sons

then rejects them to fight

waiting for Cain to act.


She is a rose, growing,

from a mislaid seed

on a frozen rocky wasteland

that is all she’s ever known.

Red and pink peddles open,

hopeful, fine and fragile

but nothing grows

on an empty field

of snowy white.


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