Notes About The Poem
Benjamin Bartley mothers day poetry contest
Mothers Milk and Our Daily Bread
Our Daily Bread
Flour, yeast, and milk, a bit of butter too,
and giving it some time to rise,
into a loaf, it grew..
From this mass of sticky flour
will come warm, pillow soft bread.
My body continues its weary work,
as thoughts float through my head.
Looking out my window,
I see the vast and clear blue skies,
my heart fills up with longing…
like dough, perhaps I'll rise.
My arms will grow soft feathers,
my bones all hollow out…
giving me just what I'll need
to fly and float about.
Freedom from the daily drudge,
from burdens and all my cares…
I'll flap my newly made wings
and fly away from there.
Out of this very window,
into bright skies I see…
over the distant mountain tops
to unknown mountain peaks.
Perhaps a place where I could find
A peaceful people who…
give higher value to a woman's mind,
and all that women do.
We sisters of the uterus
We captives of the Moon
We who bleed to create life
Soldiers in stiletto shoes…
...carry more than our fair share
of heavy burdens and the blame…
our bodies are seductive
and so, seem steeped in shame.
These anchors bound to my arms
These binding ties, severed,
when bone turns to hollow straw
and skin sprouts supple feathers...
...then I'll rise like this yeasty dough
and bake in the oven of the sun.
I hear the ding of alarm bells ring
telling me my bread is done.
Copyright © Crystol Woods | Year Posted 2024
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