The soft glow behind the curtains
must be morning at last.
The moon is long set.
I am in my mother's house.
She finishes one more sleep
in the room beneath mine.
I am old,
and she is ancient,
Yet still the mother bond
pulls firm as ever --
The body that encased me,
The voice that whispered
the mother secrets that
no infant can remember,
no woman can forget.
She is here yet.
The soft glow of morning,
The deep green fescue growing,
The distant lowing of cows
in a neighbor's field, calling,
Come, my love, my baby,
Come home to me again.
copyright, M.K. Christiansen
August, 2023
