She practices her disciplines every day.
She makes no great attempt to be perfect, rather rests in the divine.
She is the divine mother.
When people meet her they feel safe, they love her.
The divine mother prospers from her craft.
Honing her spirituality with nature.
She contrives to drive forward through the dark, icy storms.
And her leverage is her proof.
She won't back down.
And neither will I.
If she ever needs me to have her back, it's usually once every few years.
And I'm there on the days when the wind pummels us.
I count on her.
The same face, a different space.
I want her to know I colored my face red myself.
I made myself into an angry adolescent.
The truth is her memory is great.
She remembers details I might gloss over.
Years bound, silk cords of you and me.
I wanted the power of raw love to imbibe her.
This isn't about me, it's about her.
A tribute to all the silent mothers seeking calm, steadfast waters.
If the boat tips let me be the rider.
Leave her alone, she's not the culprit.
My mother would take my place on a day my head ached to high hell.
My mother would get up early to make plans for a better life for me.
My mother raised me single-handedly, she's strong.
Trustworthy and fair, she is beautiful like the red and white flowers wrapped in the sage wreath she made.
If you stopped at nothing, maybe you should have looked around.
If you went back to pick up your child from the floor, no one would complain.
She picked me up and gave me back my toy.This is for my mother.