The women bustle in the kitchen,
Children crying underfoot,
Loving them, asking for holding,
Being held and loved.

We sit and wonder what it's about,
All the sounds and moving,
All the smells that thrive
And grow in the oven.

We watch mothers tending,
Holding, carrying, caring,
And we yearn for what we see,
Here in our old hearts young.

There is no way to be there again,
In mother's arms holding,
Being loved as we cry and writhe,
Being hers, just hers alone.

But we write and wonder,
Here in our chair by the window,
With the light shining in,
Bringing loving wonder - from where?

Tim Beckham
March 7, 2017