On Mother’s Day

The sound of a paint brush
In a distant room,
meditation with a sable wand,
or a pen crossing a field
of white with simple
words of care.

Today, a woman I know
will watch warblers return
to a lake near her ailing father’s home.
Another will open an earnest card
composed of scraps and scrawls.
A third will spread a cloth,
prepare her daughter’s christening.

I think of the many ways that women
listen, soothe, pray this world
into its worthy hours,
gestures evanescent as dreams,
essential as water,
delicate as hope.

The tulip brought from the garden
placed in a vase,
moments that feed
the soil of love in which
without notice or comment most days
we bloom.

For these,

unquenchable gratitude.