A Mother’s Day poem for a grown daughter graduating college

There was a time

measured in the skipped beats

of a sonogram machine

when you were mine

completely to hold;

you ate my food,

shared my blood,

before the cord was cut

and like a yellow balloon

spiralling slowly, quickened

at times by turbulent air

rising, you flew.

There never will come a time,

when the beats run ragged and out

of time, when they no longer tattoo:

I love you.

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1 Response to Graduations

  1. Pingback: Wednesday Festival | RevGalBlogPals

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