To The Mothers Tears of nostalgia dripped, drizzled and dried. So many mothers planted nearby. In the jungle of youth, another one just died. The others, hunched waiting their turn, including my own. What would I say on that day? “She taught me to smile at the edge of cliff.” And on my day what would be said? “He laughed when he leapt.” If I wanted a crowd I’d need to move on soon. The leaves on the trees, green in the late August Eden. Listened to the stories of sons and granddaughters, dancing with the summer wind, unaware Hospice was near, in full colors of orange, yellow and red. So beautiful, then death, spiraling to the mother of all mothers. Spreading her hands out in a welcome back to the womb. To become one again, to nourish the next in line. Strangers from strange lands, holding hands, sewing dresses, sowing wheat and grapes To make wine, to get drunk, to waltz and drink in the sunshine. Dream, dream, dream the night holds secrets unknown. The sea licks the shore, gentle healer caressing the nape of the sand monster yearning to be tamed. A toast to the mothers, a deep breath for the mothers, God damn the love of the mothers.