Mothering secrets unlocked by spurts
Of growth — a glimpse of bounty;
Deprived of clement your children scorched
By stout-hearted elements of fury.
Yet, with death the beads of potency
Lie forsaken to the ground in becoming
And in wishing. Permit them dying
To breathe beneath that from darkness
Come to seeing.
Fire from the Fire, lofty and base,
Come touch the children gently;
Now, on a mattress of fertile sultry
Co-create for our earthly pantry.
Hate not the novice neonate, please,
But pour thy potion freely;
The gallivanting water and the intercourse
Of seed within her.
Pressed between your crevices, damp
In expectation. Burst forth
Some flowers and rejoice
Once more in ovulation.
By: Ruth Mostrales, November 2008