The Good Mother

Dedicated to My Mom

The good mother leaves her house
walks softly, her feet crushing the grass.
Its summer scent awaken her thoughts
to the past.

A little brother who died young.
Her childhood wish a mountain sat,
guarded, loomed behind the back
of their house.

She wished a glimpse of a sea
sparkling and fizzing...
No, the sea doesn't fizz.
She scratches out that thought.
We used to play and roll around
in grass that smelled like this.

The good mother is now a mother
just like her mother.
No mountain or sea, but she has
a pear tree.

She reaches on tip toe the pears
she can get. She uses a long pole
to knock down the rest.
She takes all needs to the house,
to her kitchen,
peels,
cuts,
sugars,
cooks preserves her mother taught.

She is the one to give honeyed love,
patience, kisses to her family.
What small women
do,
debate
she doesn't have time for
the gossip,
gloating,
envy,
pretty pettiness.

The good mother is an old woman now.
She looks back, remembers her babies.
The curious little girl wanting to help
with the timid and quiet baby brother.
The cloth washes his little back
and rounded belly
water droplets like diamonds on her precious.
He splashes, smiles, holds a treasured toy.
He pats his little manhood and starts to play,
but the good mother pushes the little hand away.
His sister giggles.

The good mother saw her children not as a burden.
There was no postpartum regrets or selfishness,
hatred of responsibility.
Her children were a gift.
The good mother understood

The flowers and beautiful arabesque gardens
that continue to flourish in my soul
were planned and planted there by the good mother.