Friday

i will not forget you

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Can a mother forget the babe at her breast,
who grew in her own Body and is sustained by it still?

Nuzzled close and warm,
milk-drunk smiles suggest no.
Aching fullness creates urgency the
fuzziest awareness cannot suspend.

Tender moments nurture intimacy,
embodied grace of Mother-love:

I will not forget you!  See, 
I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

Nail-scarred hands ache, too:

O Jerusalem, killer of prophets, 
how I long to gather you as 
a hen gathers chicks under wing.
But you were not willing.

Love, secret-knit and nourished in mystery,
poured out for the prodigal unto the very ends of the earth.


shared with five minute friday at the gypsy mama, imperfect prose at when eden murmurs,
and simple moment, bigger picture at peanut butter in my hair.
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