The wisdom of the mother is her soul.
How her hands touch.
The scent of her presence.
She must open doors, empty rooms,
make a track in the meadow.
Mothers teach by their weaving,
the rhythm of their steps.
Children go to the edge of a mother’s voice.
Remember her words before they sleep.
Listen to the echo of her sounds on waking.
There are no Ten Commandments
in a mother’s heart.
There is the attitude of sky,
the cleanness of water,
the gentleness of a song,
the imagination of an elf
running and hiding in the bushes.
She gathers stones for the hearth,
clay for the pot.
Plays chase with the mystery
surrounding her children,
and lets them find each other,
hide and seek,
unique as pearls
found in the shells of the sea,
glowing and beautiful.