The mother is the architect
Gently sculpting the loom
Patiently weaving life.
Generously she offers
Every kind of sustenance
Bountifully for all
But the garden is too small
Overgrown and heavy
The scaffolding buckles
Sighing beneath the weight
Of her prodigious ripe fruit
The trellis is in transition
Vines grow wild,
Fruit falls to the ground
The children lament
Weary worn gardeners
retire worn gloves
The apprentices bloom
ambitious botanists
Fresh faced youth
dreamy-eyed and hopeful
as they extend the lattice
mindfully making room—
for what the great mother
will birth next.