I stand there by that rocking cradle,
hands shaking by my sides
Quivering with fears unnamed
and horrors ill-described
Yes, I hesitate beside the cradle,
on my brow is a sweaty sheen
How can I place my hand upon it
when his innocence makes me appear unclean?
How can I fail to impart the negativity,
the hurt and pain I've known
How will he stand to look at me then,
when he is a man full grown?
As I step forward and claim my duty,
I pick him up, my burden bare
And I wonder will I always stand here
feeling so alone and scared
The rocking cradle gives no answer,
it continues its swaying tread
Immune to despair and joy,
deaf to laughter and dread
Seeing all, it takes no sides
Knowing much, it claims no authority
Instead its rocks its steady course
as it was made to be
And perhaps this is the answer,
that motherhood is not an adept's game
That each of us comes to the cradle
ill prepared and yet forever changed
The secret in rocking that cradle
is not to be the mother figure etched in stone
We all must sway to course that works
for each of us alone…