Mother
by Georgina Yael Johnson
I stand near the ocean where builders are free
based on thoughts of you, this rhythm, the sea
and the quietest dripping within, like ice-bergs
softly melting
or juttings of rock eroding
as anger submits to sprays of fear
and old storms leave
sea-face still as a mirror,
and undercurrents of love and grief
follow mystery of this moon
that lets cooler light fall
through difference in one soul
and the next...
as various as these shells
whole and broken,
heaped in wandering lines
by the tides.
knowing these sapphire depths
unasking
divide in rivers and deltas
and raindrops and
steam of passionate loss
and tears falling again
so fertile,
as gentle waves like mothers' hands
wash sand from aching feet
whose footprints traced your ways.
And I feel you playing
with these little toes,
always curled within themselves-
and after birth
when they were just a longing
to belong, you counted
each one to see that there were ten.
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