Our Mother, She Weeps for Our Leaving

There is a universal hush.

a heart-wrought sigh

taking place daily.

an aching, weighing, head-throbbing, moan.

A wailing of the world, yet

let me concentrate on

every melodramatic motion of man—

weigh the mind, change in haste, ‘til

the sun rises and sets on our own apprehensions.

With a rag

we wipe, gather and tighten ‘til

a drip forms

and falls

into the cup of

expectation.

(Who can be satisfied with such a ration when

as children we sipped a breast

that promised river and ocean?)

the pea-sized pool sits

with us in the heat,

evaporating—

as we look,

and strain toward,

the things we’re apprehending.

(our Mother, she weeps for our leaving)