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.