These are our Mothers

A soft place to fall,
a bed to crawl into
on thunderous Thursday mornings when lightning collides with the earth—

A curvaceous glass pitcher
of iced mint tea
refreshing souls on sultry Sundays in June.

A well worn ladle
delivering steaming soup to hungry little bellies around the room,
chicken noodle, minestrone, creamy potato—

The unsolicited advice
that we can’t help but follow,
the women we unwittingly become.