This is my one form of writing that I seem to throw and re-throw as though it's a clay pot that simply won't work itself into the shape I'm envisioning. This means these ever-changing writings can be rendered into as many as 20 different versions of the same poem.
What follows is a poem I wrote several years ago entitled, "Hen Sitting," but this is another version. I'm not so sure I'm completely content with this run at it; however, truth be told, I'm not so sure I'm completely content with any writing I do, poetry or otherwise. I just know that each piece casts my words into the amber of the moment in time and I must let them go, imperfect or not.
In honor of Mother's Day I humbly offer up, "Hen Sitting" which I wrote when waiting for one of my children to receive the results of her audition.
Hen
Sitting
I
wait
The
Mother Hen
listening
for the return
of
one from her brood
I
feel
her
pain
every
promise of news
quickening
my heart
I
measure
time’s
passage
through
aching arms
longing
to bring comfort
I know
her desire
the wanting of it so badly
the memory a brand
I remember
when it was my turn
the memories surfacing
melding past into present
I
am
The
Mother Hen
ever
waiting
with
boundless loving care.
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