A Mother to All Children

A Mother To All Children
She sits quiet in her beauty
Entering her room,
Like tea pouring from a kettle
Soft, warm light will lower shoulders.
History and piano lightly circulate
While her gentle voice soothes the weariest of bones.
A mother to all children.
She is hydration
And every little decoration
Is delicate.
Her tapestries rich,
Clothing a muted landscape
Holding her fleshy, full bodice –
Onlookers notice.
Is charity her name?
Is grace her vocation?
Relief is as effortless as breath.
Pure is the taste of her intimacy.
Sweet salvation and naturalness
Even the breeze can see
Taking pause by her window
To smell her air, sweetly.
This moonsong woman
Wildly and wonderfully bathing
In the complexity of her wildlife.
In her company, nature sighs.
And therein lies –
Hope.