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(A beautiful, French mother shares reflections with her child) (Poem by Wendy Howe ) Like me most mothers hold their children with kind arms and eyes casting soft lamplight from the soul. Yet, I tell you these elbows have pushed aside darkness abruptly when I rushed as a girl to watch sunrise veil the landscape in crimson silk. Geese squatted at the hill's feet and beckoned me to bring handfuls of bread. I tore rolls, scattered them like blossoms and watched birds gust around the crumpled wheat. Their hunger seized my breath. I wanted to feed on the light, loosen my hair and bridle the wind. My bones loved a weightless day as they absorbed the need to spin and spill colors on tongue and cloth. The land was art and I became its artist. The land was warm and Gascogne became my patroness. Her arms wrapped me in the ripeness of grapes and flowers, her eyes were cloudless. And now I perceive why I must teach you to embrace the fields of your mother's soil and shadow each thrill with the pulse of its wild birds. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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