THE MOTHER

She takes the seeds from her womb,
scatters them to the wind
and sings to them, the Mother.
And the wind lifts them high
above fields, above fears,
takes them round and round
then lets them fall.
And flowers and trees
and children grow from the earth.
And the sun shines upon them
and makes them blossom.
And time watches,
counts, and waits for them.

Around the corner
the panhandler stands
with his hand stretched out:
"Spare any change, Mister?"
There's Vietnam in his head,
and the blades of the helicopter
keep roaring in his ears.
And the children duck
at unexpected times
as if they could hear them too.
But it's another war they hear,
the one that follows
the one that's ahead.
And they know, the children,
they know
that it will take them
and bleed them
and drop them from the sky.
And the Mother will scoop them up
and return them to her womb
and refuse to give birth again.

Jay Frankston
wlp@mcn.org