The Thing Has a Mind of Its Own

When my mother was born the angels took flight 

and sang a song that had never been heard. When

mother was born sunflowers filled the ocean and the

 waves became soft, merciful, laying kisses upon her feet. When 

my mother was born she cradled all the bees in the rocking crook 

of her arms and honey spilled onto the floor every time they 

laughed. When my mother was born the world learned 

the word light. My mother pours sugar into my 

cupped hands and the city falls silent. 

The sparrows burst from the trees and the 

jays rustle the branches and she knows 

every single one of their names. There 

are things the earth remembers and the earth 

remembers my mother’s mother and her mother 

and her mother and hers and hers and hers until the dark 

first broke in half. They held and were held. They sang their songs. 

They crossed river and desert and frozen wasteland. They opened 

themselves and brought forth life, life in all its beauty, sons and 

daughters. The world learned the word mother. And the rain 

came down, and the lightning filled their bodies, and the 

tombs all turned to dandelions. Someday they will see. 

Someday the men will realize that the thing has a 

mind of its own. For now the chickadees call for 

my mother and perch on her shoulders. For 

now the sugar falls from my hands and 

takes roots in the dirt. For now I look 

at the sky and wonder if it will 

change. For now we think of 

mothers and mothers and 

mothers to come.

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