a mother, except you,
my little cherubic child.
I have learnt on the go,
like a painter flowing free
on a blank canvas-
guided only by impulse and art.
We pluck flowers and blow them
away
as the winds heat up with an
impending Indian summer,
incubating within the belly of a monster
that I will fight tooth and nail
to keep you safe from,
but life isn't about being safe,
I don't want you to simply survive.
You are a king, my son;
born to rule hearts and lands
but mostly to rule your own destiny
and thrive.
As we sit cross-legged in the grass
today
like two friends with a secret,
I feel the sameness of our souls
and the congruence of our hearts.
Again a wind blows
and I am filled with peace-
life feels lovely, like a song about
happiness.
A ladybird sits on my knee,
and you laugh;
we try to feed it weeds and twigs,
and I wonder if I have learnt
exactly how
to be a mother
because I feel a comfort now
that was missing before-
and I'm sure it comes only
from the love and applause you give me.
I feel like a mother-
my life's greatest victory.
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