"Mothering"

I love her, but I will let her go
back to the dark spaces underneath
the fields burdened with the weight of wheat
harvest-heavy, the olives' abundance
arching the branches almost to the ground,
the vineyard's grapes swollen to bursting.
But not because of pomegranate seeds
devoured in the dark nor elder brothers'
treachery, even if that of gods. No, I send
her back to that kingdom of the still
for my own sake.

For I am worn

to exhaustion with the act of mothering.
I have nurtured and nourished what sprang
from me with my own substance, cradled
to my chest and rocked in my arms what I bore
with love, with care, with healing, all freely given.
Now all has come to fruition, and though I
will joy eventually, now I am drained,
a vessel emptied of its wine, and seek
only repose that brings renewal. So it is
I send her back into the dark again
that I may love her like a mother once more.