The Mother.

It was simply the way she moved,
her hips sauntering forward
followed by legs so smooth and lean,
one arm gracefully floating by her side,
the other playing with the flower in her hair;

her movement suggested that there was no sin
in being a woman.

And then she looked up at me,
and in her eyes I could see a mother,
confirmed by the slope of the belly, the
way her body seemed to glow with golden light,
the worn out veins showing through her sandals.

How sacred, this mother,
how holy this woman with her hips and her eyes.

The church killed Mary with solemn paintings
of a woman shrouded and silent;
This woman walks like being a woman is the
greatest pleasure in life.
Her sensuality invites, teases and delights
the deep emptiness of my soul.

Then she clasps her hands around that slight belly
and says "child of mine, how I love you",
a tear drops from her eye, travels the length of rough cheek;
"child, ain't no greater pain than this love of mine".