Mother

She sounds like she’s from here;

properly from here.

In her voice are a hundred

textures and tones,

woven together so meticulously,

so artfully.

You have to spend time with her

to get a hint of all that she is.

To take a long stroll

under the forest canopy.

Do you know that she changes like 

the wind, 

and the trees,

and the seasons?

Turbulent then calm,

grounded then uprooted,

dying embers,

and then a raging blaze.

Do you notice the flux of energy

between you both?

The wax and wane,

the ebb and flow?

How she tries to alchemise your pain

on invisible,

metaphysical planes?

Her constant shifting

and sifting through your words,

for hidden meanings,

and feelings spoken only with your eyes?

Her arms are the branches

that weary travellers alight to rest.

And as she sways them to sleep,

like a conductor

in slow-motion,

she orchestrates a symphony 

from the life that sings

in her midst.

A poem inspired by the nurturing of Mother Earth and by a maternal love that is empathic, deep and magical.