To His Girlfriend on Mother's Day

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In the night in our bed we pause our play
And amidst anticipation's breathless blossoms,
I gaze in your eyes and a hundred things imagine.

Our bed a scented greenhouse garden becomes
And it's sweet Nature on whom I lay.
In the flushed bloom of your face,
In the eager verdant pasture of your form,
I see and feel all of Nature's promise.

Nature, that tender mother whose loving arms
Hold and comfort us in all our alarms,
Who feeds us from her ample substance,
Whose beauty becomes our inspiration,
That same Nature may unnatural prove,
And angered beyond all measure
By our crimes and misdemeanors,
May seek against us,
The once fond children of her womb,
A relentless maddened vengeance,
Of storm and drought and ruin.

You though, who remind me so
Of Her in feature,
Have, I know, a true mother's nature,
Forgiving and mild.
You could never harm
Even your most erring child.

Ah, at last anticipation flowers!
You hold me and take me
And guide me sweetly in,
A failed child drawn back again
The tight garden way
Truly traveled but that once,
Helpless, blind, bringing pain.

With true mother's eyes
You look up at me and smile,
And it's as if my sins:
My laziness, my stupidity
My thoughtlessness, my dishonesty,
Are washed clean away,
As if they've never been.
As I draw out I feel reborn,
Bringing pleasure this time, not pain,
Fresh, whole and without guile.

So, though the hips upon which I press,
Have yet to cup a child blossoming from within,
You are to me: nature, mother, lover;
Three rolled in one.

What child, though, really cares for its mother?
As a toddler, it runs chuckling for the busy street.
As a teen, it drives off fast with friends.
When grown, it only ever remembers
On those sentimental squares of the calendar
(And of course when facing disaster),
Other times, it casts her aside, forgotten.

So, as within you I slide,
Unborn, Reborn, again and again,
My thoughts turn to work and my dalliance,
With that nice girl from Finance.

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