The making of a mother

I was born October Twentieth Nineteen Eighty.
I left my mother's exhausted body.
Placed in her arms snugly.
She was fulfilled.

Unfamiliar spaces and sensations.
My mother held me near.
Through my early fears.
She calmed me.

Her own joys and dreads burgeoned!
Through those months panic and yearning.
With only clear blue weather to appease her.
She had given birth to an adventurer!

Not wanting the comfort of my cot.
Testing the nerves of my new mother.
Emotions fight violently against each other.
Brain fog and foreign thought took her.

Over the summer her body slowly healed.
Absorbed optimism, routine could hardly steal.
I attempted and failed to pull off my next escapade.
Waiting for mother's embrace from the floor where I laid.

(Dedicated to Anne Veronica Delamore)