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An ode to a mother

An artist eschews
the waste he pursues;
discarded baubles
of dabbled hues.
Floor strew with chiseled stone
or shavings of wood.
All this for an insular moment
of envisioned personal truth.
But Ah! the envious artist
stands dwarfed
by a mother’s virtue to create
within a womb.

A rupturous body and soul
in an impassioned mood
imprison a dream and a seed.
with genetically coded
consummate skill.
And for her the labor is sweet
form conception to birth
a pleateaued peak.

No hammering, no shattering
no tedious discards.
Evoked is no single reality
and no affixed frame.
The picture is empowered to move.

Oh mama! Oh dada! he will eventually coo.