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Sacred Mothering

I hover over, I cloak him

in the sacred space as he sleeps.

The troubled cough,

occasional yet meaningful,

bursting through the silence of predawn.

It tells me something I can’t quite grasp---

feelings of pressure and grim faces

that want, expect, disapprove.

The body just wants peace,

wants to lie down in soft glades,

full of grass blades and fragrant flower smells.

Birdsong trills from waving branches of green summer fare.

The blue of sky, the white of translucent cloud,

the massage of breeze as it rolls over the body...

And a spontaneous sigh of release

heads down into the core of the body,

and up from the shaking,

but unbound,


Why do I not give him this?

He knows everything.