Even a mother's love is not insatiable to the point
Where she doesn't crave a lonely hour to sit at the edge of a pond,
Where her role in the ecosystem of interdependent needs
Is limited to the few drops of blood she might spare to a mosquito.
Her steps down the forest path draw a ripple of disturbance
In the birdsong that closes behind her,
Her long hours of creeping out of nurseries
Having taught her the role of quiet in sustaining life.
She must bear witness, now and then,
To the enduring, patient indifference with which
The earth mothers her constant offspring.
Only then will her mind close properly on a day
Full of needs she hasn't quite been fit to fill,
Despite her constant search for the right tune
To close the rift in birdsong caused
By her children's overzealous attempts
To seize that which they frighten away.
Whether her soul's piper ever stumbles upon the magic notes
To ease her children's way through life or not,
There will abide, at least, she hopes, this quiet.
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