I wrote a mother's day poem

A Prayer

—is how your body began.

A thought I had at the beach in Oregon,

while three children ran across damp sand.

The grey sky held a red kite,

the seagulls were particularly white.

The clouds—pillows I could turn

my head up to, and dream—

those voices, they were my children.

No, no—your body was yet begun,

spinning deep inside,

whirring,

a delicate machine,

like a butterfly, ready to take flight.