a sweet offering
early July and the trees smell like matches
each cloud is a blessing of shade
and (less likely) possibly rain
today the first wild strawberries are ripe,
ruby packets of pleasure
even the smallest souls can reach –
how can such sweetness come
from sun rain rock air?
and what comparable kindness
might I possibly make
given all the energy poured into me
these 47 years?
feeding the children
I pile up platters of care
oodles of cuddles
vats of validation
chafing dishes of just-right challenges
ample heapings of acceptance
call them to the table
groaning under the weight
of what seems to me abundance
but only they are able
to part their lips
and allow nourishment in
only they can accept these offerings
meanwhile we all sit rigidly
waiting to see
if any fork is lifted
