Mother is tending the garden
leaving no thirsting plant-child
parched
in her slow moving
up the rows.
From vines she draws,
from thickets,
broad-leaf greens
and red-gem tomatoes.
Fruit of labor and patience,
these she’s turnt from the soil,
now set over fire
to boil.

Mother’s love in
tin
bowls and cups.
No silver platter flattery.
Necessity here,
and the fragrance steaming
burns the lip.
It comes too hot
but in waiting taste
the thick of sauce,
salt and nutrient,
the savor of warm gifted
herbs
bitter,
medicinal.

“When you finish you meal,
wash your bowl.”

Full-fleshed flavor
on dancing pallet comes
often later,
in the tending of ones own gardens,
in the turning of soil
and the redolence of ones own workings
does the meal truly feed you.
ah! The reality in us!
ah! The loving,
thanks-giving
back to Earth,
Greatest, Grandest Mother.
The warmth of food flowing
down hands,
fingers,
into the fruits
and the thirsting plant-children.