I wrote this poem for my mother, on her birthday.
Life lingers in a woman’s womb,
As a single seed begins to bloom.
The cell splits, then splits once more,
Each determined at its core
To grow like a clover,
To split over and over,
Until they form a heart beat,
Until they form two little feet.
Nine months pass. A little life is born.
So young is this light,
So little is its form,
Yet it outshines that of the morn.
Six hundred and sixty months down the line,
I look at this life, this mother of mine.
To this day, her cells still split, her cells still die,
Yet the light in each heart beat
Still outshines that of the sky.