A Poem about Mothers to End the Year by Siobhan Farrell

Mothers

They gather like a tribe of warriors with

painted faces and sharpened nails endlessly

circling the fire fanning flames with scented

boughs, searching for wood checking for signs

from the universe in bear scat , in the warm

nests of their smooth cheeked children,

sprinkling clear untroubled waters into

gardens sprouting butterflies bathed in

moonlight, chasing off virtual bullies,

telemarketers, checking ID’s of drunks

wearing Armani suits, picking up dirty

needles, shucking bullets, scaring TV zealots

or robots crashing firewalls crossing lines,

knitting merino wool socks, sharing ancient

recipes to calm oceans halting sharp

rocks tumbling down mountainsides.

Misreading the signs, they sometimes covet

their children too long needing reminders

that their work is done, to open a link in the

chain, widening the circle making it stronger,

blessed by sage, rose petals  and juniper berries,

nourishing the earth where they dance through

wind and rain, through seasons of hate and

bloodshed, clasping their fingers in love
and light, holding the world together.