“Mama, Mama, Mama.”
They call like newborn birds.
They scramble to get to my criss-crossed lap.
They throw silky arms about my neck, downy feathers in the breeze.
I stop what I am doing, what I’ve not yet begun,
with an eye to future’s empty nest, my raising work all done.
Published by Amy @ Generous Wisdom | Spacious Heart
Amy's work centers around the embodied experience of love's spaciousness and is grounded in brain, body, and heart-based wisdom. She teaches yoga, meditation, & writing as a way to foster tender self-love that supports empathy and compassion-driven work in the world.
Check out her bio @amysecrist.com.
View all posts by Amy @ Generous Wisdom | Spacious Heart
Is it ever really done? 😉 I love you!
The raising work is, I think. Just not the worrying and the loving and the helping. 😉
Do you take requests?
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Once again I love, love, love the textures in this poem: the criss-crossed lap, the silk and feathers and even the nest has a “feel” to it. The rhyme in the last couplet is wonderful as well as the nest hearkening back to the newborn birds at the beginning of the poem. Thank you for your gift of words. Love and light to you dear friend….God Bless.
So thankful for your reading and observing. The nest has been such an image lately, and now, with the coming Spring (however slow!) Many Blessing to you, friend!