(A beautiful, French mother shares reflections with her child)
(Poem by Wendy Howe )
most mothers hold their children
with kind arms and eyes casting
soft lamplight from the soul.
Yet, I tell you these elbows
have pushed aside darkness
abruptly when I rushed as a girl
to watch sunrise veil
the landscape in crimson silk.
Geese squatted at the hill's feet
and beckoned me to bring handfuls
of bread. I tore rolls, scattered them
like blossoms and watched birds
gust around the crumpled wheat.
Their hunger seized my breath. I wanted
to feed on the light, loosen my hair
and bridle the wind.
My bones loved a weightless day
as they absorbed the need to spin
and spill colors on tongue and cloth.
The land was art and I became its artist.
The land was warm and Gascogne became
my patroness. Her arms wrapped me
in the ripeness of grapes and flowers,
her eyes were cloudless. And now I perceive
why I must teach you to embrace
the fields of your mother's soil
and shadow each thrill
with the pulse of its wild birds.
To know more about Wendy Howe
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