Done with her cow-heavy body,
she shows her two babies the daffodils
just beginning to reveal their tips
in the field outside their window.

Her eyes are soft and muted
as the girl just learning to talk
pulls on her mother’s skirt,

as the mother clutches the boy
with his tiny fists.
She lets him slip on her hip a bit
then pulls him up tight.

The day is a rainstorm of diapers and feedings
and laundry, but she moves around
like a finger
swirled in water,
almost a dance.

This is what she is made for:
easing forth these babies so she can sing and feed and hold.
She hums and rocks,
rocks and looks out the window,
looks and coos and ooohs at the startling
burst of yellow beneath the last bit of snow.

The babies stare back at her. She wrings her
dishtowel and stares back.
Closing her eyes, she feels their weight:
two bags of hanging sand.

Soon, she knows, she will be awash with daffodils
and one day
she may release her grip and wander shoeless
into the fields

her children running after, a long game
of hide and seek.

11/25/2004

Author's Note: Part of the Sylvia series

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky