Living Sea by Linda Roe

No matter what I do, I am a mother.
No progeny required to lavish love
on my endeavours, whether I am raising
eyebrows, the bar, tomatoes, or even a child
from my womb, or yours, or hers. It is fine work
to knead life’s pliant dough, watch it growing

round, fueled by the yeast of intention. Growing
babies is a singular task. It suggests a mother
who feeds on demand, changes on need, her work
the main melody with measures of sleep. Love
invested, deposited with such interest in a child
whose future return is not guaranteed, raising

high-risk market uncertainty. I’m all for raising
Cain occasionally, but I’m more interested in growing
peace, inside and out, sinking deep roots, harvesting child
plants which grow on their own, separate from the mother.
I find comfort in the notion that beyond death, our love
lives on, though I don’t comprehend what makes it work.

Taxes, family, life–everything is a work
in progress. Some days I feel so mortal, raising
the possibility that I may run out of love
before it’s all done. Lately I’ve had this growing
sense that it doesn’t matter. I am an expectant mother
who treats each day as a precious new child.

My plans are derailed daily by the arrival of said child
pretending to be a problem. This is my work:
to look deeply beyond illusion until I spy the mother
lode of golden opportunity. Raising
consciousness seems a sure-fire way to keep growing.
Even the Beatles told us all we need is love.

This being alive is a great labour of love.
How can I be more gentle, treat myself like a child
who is, despite my age, still learning, still growing
into my womanness? Take note–this is NOT paid work.
I’m a volunteer player who’ll soon be raising
the ante with the hand I’ve been dealt. Holy Mother!

Who wouldn’t love to say that it will all work
out? This innocent and wounded child I’m raising
inside will keep growing, and I’m always her mother.

Clouds heavy with snow hang over the city,
not yet ready to release wonder.

An occasional perfect snowflake escapes, and is suspended
between sky and earth.
It floats at the whim of a gust of wind,
and dissolves into thin, cold air before it reaches the ground.

We are gathered in a small house
on a street shadowed with old branches.
Trees silhouetted against a gray sky stand along both sides of the road
forming a tunnel of sorts, leading to the centre.

Inside, we prepare for the coming.
In ancient and timeless woman ritual, we cleanse.
We dress the birth bed and set out linens for swaddling.
We simmer fragrant broth and brew tea scented with lemon and honey.
We gather in warmth and recount the ancient myths
of gods born to virgins and carpenters,
of heaven and earth coalescing into divinity,
of the joy that this child will bring to the world.

The slow motion time of this advent cocoons us.
We wait in expectancy and excitement as the time nears and the pain begins.
We hold her close and whisper words of support.
A small boy rubs her ankles and knees, and declares his love.
His father paces and worries, cajoles and encourages, feeds and braces.
Eternal rhythms surge and wane until at last, in a midnight clear and cold,
another life begins.

Silent night, holy night.

No angels or shepherds herald this birth on a night
in early December,
but the divine within is pleased.
A girl child is born.
The world is transformed.
Hallelujah!

Twilight etching by Anna W. Syperek

I woke into a nightmare and you
were there, smiling into dark,
cavernous spaces, already calling them home,
translucent fingertips pressing my
stretching walls and me, aware of your
distant vibrations, unsettled and afraid.

I cannot conceive you as reality:
gauze hair, infinitesimal teeth,
film of flesh, aqueous eyes–my eyes,
staring back at me. I will
disengage you as my blood
creates you. I will unmake you
cell by cell as you swell
inside me; removing your need, your
wish, your want, piece by piece;
and make full again your only home
with my apologies.

Breathe by Maria Doering