Mothering
Transitioning from my spiritual home
I resist my entry, fearing unknowns
I’m swaddled and cleaned and scented with foam
My mother whispers, “This now is your home.”
An infant I fuss commencing great cries
Mother soothes and comforts and dries my eyes
She’s tired and wilted but doesn’t give up
Always parenting me from her loving cup
And when she grows old, it’s transitions once more
I protest and struggle as I did before
And although I fear to be left alone
Her heavenly friends greet her, “Welcome home.”
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