My mother once held me 
In her strong, warm arms.

Nourished me to strength
Pure milk from firm, healthy breasts.

Her full hair blew gently in fresh, soft breeze;
Her perfume danced gently on cool waves.

Laughter bubbled joyously from deep within her,
Clear liquid crystals generously spilled over,

And lustily ran down her curves and slopes;

Shimmering, sweet water- 

Precious, cool relief to throats and
Legs and arms that burned pleasantly 

From running and laughing
Over soft, sturdy mounds.

Radiance glowed above green wreath 
Placed elegantly upon her auburn glory.

Ever faithful, body responding in cycles of time.

Moist, sweet green;
Full of the new wetness of youth.

Unfolded from rich darkness,
Full,ripe sweetness unfurled.

Reveling out lusty days of memories
Red clay roads, and swimming holes.

Arriving at golden age of wisdom,
Nostalgic yearning…  without regret. 

Able to receive rest.

Take the break… there is another day.

Until there are no more….

White hair that glistens–cold facets, every color;
tiny rainbow explosions 

Spiraling down from cold sun.

Sage Ice Queen-Rigid melts slowly
Beneath warmth of Heat’s firm stroke.

Awaiting the renewal.

Strong woman; sustainer of every foot 
That wanders o’er hallowed paths.

Vulnerable in her love,
Giving, pouring, sheltering, nurturing;

Unable to comprehend the incomprehensible.
No thought of ill-will possible.

Like most mothers, unwilling to see
Her youngs as anything other than love.

Pouring forward her all, from generous hands;
Pantry robbed bare, from behind, unaware.

Mothers sometimes grieve at least one heartbreak;
Self-centered young who grab, and pull, and never say please.

Heartbreak changes a woman:

Once strong, warm arms; 
Cold iron barricades, draped in barbed lace.

Healthy breasts, once warm and full;
Toxic sacs, curdled lumps; 

Scarce a drop to drink.

Full, soft tresses- flowing on gentle cool breeze;
Stalks now stab and scratch my eyes,

Face buried in hay stack 
Escape scorching sun wheeze.

Crystal laughter once rang bright and clear;

Green grief pools deadly; stagnate stench- foam waste floats lifelessly atop nonstick surface.

Slick sludge slides over her dry, cracked skin, and effortlessly glides down her fallen crevices,

Dragged over edge by thick flat silver rivulets.

Curves and gentle slopes- shattered, fractured; too much stress.

Dusky children fall down on unstable crust; muscles still burn.
No oxygen to spare to sustain their play.

Green glow radiates beneath orange heat;
Toxic meltdown – childish, greedy ignorance.

No thought for today, or tomorrow, or ever…
Just give me money, and give it to me fast.

Ever faithful, body strains in response to cycles of time.

“Let me give you all that’s left. Just please be kind.”

“I’m in pain. May I please take your arm?”

Arms of the few remaining noble children 
Offered back through hot, sorrowful tears.

Still beautiful, though less splendid.

Curious children learn her truth
Through stories, old lithographs.

Still Sage Queen, regally staggering beneath
Heat’s now relentless stroke… 

God, will heat Never be satisfied?

Awaiting the reprieve;
Yearning yet for renewal.

Strong sustainer; woman continues
Welcome wandering traveler.

Unable to withhold
That which pours forth naturally;

Not wanting to.

Vulnerable in her love.
So busy giving, pouring, sheltering, nurturing;

Unable to comprehend betrayal,
No thought of ill-will possible.

Like most mothers, straining to see
Her youngs show anything that resembles 

Her own love.

Pouring forward still, 
Though now has less to give;

Running low on everything,
Yet never holds back her all.

Mothers sometimes grieve at least one heartbreak;

Even though some young have learned to say please.

Heartbreak changes a woman.

Donna Motta (aka Laurel Joy Graceson) resides in the beautiful Berkshires with her loving husband, children, cats, dog, bunnies, 6 chickens, and guinea pig. She is herself a wandering traveler here upon Mother Earth, cherishing every breath she is able to take. She spends much of her time teaching her youngest children; community building; gardening and caring for her furry and feathered family; cherishing trees, and of course, writing. She attends a writing group at historic Arrowhead; as well as facilitates a group of her own. Her writing comes from an intimate mix of personal experience, wrapped in a fictional twist.