Mary Carol
01-06-05, 01:31 PM
For my friends, getting pregnant is
all the rage,
But I cradle the children of a
different age.
Gray are the heads that rest on
my breast,
my arms around those who are taking
last steps.
Where words have lost meaning from
hearing too much,
my lullabies are sung in the language
of touch.
Coming full circle, back to diapers
and tears,
the faces I coo at wear the blanket
of years.
My nurturing is done without giving
birth,
to the children heading back,
to the womb of the earth.
Their bodies contract to a fetal
position,
preparing themselves for the birth of
transition.
~Becky Peterson
all the rage,
But I cradle the children of a
different age.
Gray are the heads that rest on
my breast,
my arms around those who are taking
last steps.
Where words have lost meaning from
hearing too much,
my lullabies are sung in the language
of touch.
Coming full circle, back to diapers
and tears,
the faces I coo at wear the blanket
of years.
My nurturing is done without giving
birth,
to the children heading back,
to the womb of the earth.
Their bodies contract to a fetal
position,
preparing themselves for the birth of
transition.
~Becky Peterson