Mama

Idle her hands are not

Rugged with dirt

Damp with dishwater

Threading needle or trimming ends

She waits

Expectantly for new life 

Anticipating the return of her glory days

Of slippery wet skin, just out the bath

Fingers that grip, feeding from her breast

Ticklish giggles and smiles that grow

Her children, they love her

They know no better love

And now she waits

For a child not her own,

But of her own. 

New life, returned from seasons past.