The Magic of Being a Mom

Her eyes, like broken stars
Her heart, a black hole where earthly creatures fall into
Her soul, like the dying sun
Her breath, like the ever changing moon, ebbing and flowing
Her skin, like the waves of the sea
Her mouth, like the sand of the desert
Her hair, like the roots of tall trees
Her fingers, like the roads of the country
Her feet like heavy mountains, resting harshly on the earth
Her mind like the wildflowers; growing, blooming, wilting, dying
Her belly, like a hurricane of butterflies
Her lips like the first snow; untouched
Her toes, like pebbles in a river
Her hips, like the caravans gypsies would travel

And she's too much
For even herself.

And not enough
For these constellations.