MOTHERHOOD TIMES THREE
my first-born child
sleeps deeply in my arms
his body weightless;
emptiness I shall have
when he is grown and leaves
her baby softness
the fragrance of her skin
her downy gold hair
I flow into her warmth
and she into me
again, love grows
before she takes her first breath
and opens blue eyes
her life in my hands
my life in hers
Autumn falls into the river. Ochre and mustard rush past the summer towns bringing early mists and fog, stretching across fields and roads, wrapping all in its path with gifts of silence.
The season brings an early dusk, banishing the languid nights. Trailing winds, hinting of icy storms, chase away picnickers, the brass bands and swimmers at the shore. Bare branches let in the sky and the earth turns brown.
fire in the hearth
I choose a book from the stack
by your empty chair
Drifting Sands
