Surrender.
Not as a fallen warrior in the field but
as a babe
at the Mothers breast.
Dissolve yourself
in her sea of warmth and
acceptance.
Let her wipe away all
that doesn’t sit well with you,
that obstructs your comfort and
ease,
from your chin.
Give it up.
The name you carved
on her bosom will be
forgotten before that tree
waves goodbye.
She let you swim and
urinate inside
her womb long
enough,
Beloved.
She’s shared her milk
asking nothing on return
nurtured by the Father
for long enough,
my friend.
One day I realized
it’s not easy
being a parent.
I was an middle aged man
pissing my pants and
grunting for milk.
No more.
Even the most unwilling butterfly must
eventually break the shell of its
own apathy and comfort.
Or, perish, in a rotting plastic diaper,
having never travelled the distance required
to weep at
Her grace
and patience for Her
slow children.
If these words give offence,
may that suffering crack the
casing, around your heart,
so that we may all wash
our Mother
with tears.
