As May is the month for honoring mothers, including Mary, the Mother of God, Mother of all the living in Christ, I’m sharing a poem that I wrote a few years ago for my own hard-working, devoted, talented, and generous mother. This post continues my exploration of poetry, so any and all comments and suggestions/corrections are greatly appreciated.
Within her hands, now rough and worn,
A little girl once held the morn,
Once swept the stars and shook the tree,
And played with possibility.
Then clutching fists could only pray
When hopeful dreamings slipped away,
And learn to beat and dig and tear,
To toughen skin and smother care.
And yet, within her hands I find
The strength to live outside my mind;
The world she formed with blood and pain
Has housed a little girl again—
Misshapen, yes, and less than planned,
But never lost within her hand.
© 2019 Christina Chase
I don't call myself a poet — but the beating of my heart is poetry. I don't call myself a theologian — but the light of my mind seeks the Divine. Who I am is a Child of God, a Divine Creation, a person devoted to being fully human, fully alive.