some daughters
take their mothering where they can get it
the deep shade of the old, silent tree
or long, hot chin- high baths before the drought descended
an extra muffin pressed into your hands by the tea server who always uses your name
communion at the sea edge in a storm
a lullaby of radio, busker, storyteller, birdsong, lover
waking up, being held in your own arms, knowing you will survive- again.
they also know how
firm hands around the face of the frightened pup and nose to nose
the pleasure of feeding deliciousness to guests
staying to sit with the wallflower at a dreadful party
googly eyes at the fretting baby in the shop
3 green kindergarten-pots like an unruly preschool of leaves and petals and stems and roots
money in the hand and a smile on the street
motherless daughters, impossibly alive and loving
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