Poem Category: All

Rolling over

her baby bump

the sea‘s soft swell.

The ward echoes…

our teenager pushed

to mother.

her eighth month…

mid-summer grapes

plump on the vines

cherry blossoms fall

breast feeding

into her smile

what approached the nine months

for you

I let in

kindergarten gate

my childhood

as her hand came free

nine month‘s sway

serving their breakfasts

in summer heat

dribbling on my arm

I move the babe

from my breast