Deep tensions draw the shoulds and hold so much While hells are made from can’ts and still-might-be’s With magic care great weeds and blooms are ****** Upon real earth, no final fantasies What does she owe herself and so the rest? I strain to view but maybe it’s unclear Though few embraced those true but hollow jests well hewn from mind as sharply filled with fear For needling help the price of scars she paid She brought them forth, in love she did enlist Defying self, unworthy world was stayed Creating joy in order to exist And now to hold us, tend the garden too Is what we all need mothers' hands to do.