On this day

carved out

for mothers,

motherhood

begets maternal

bonds.

Push,

push,

push

the hourglass

away.

The sand,

the mother,

the child,

all

flowing

down,

down,

down.

And the sand

is boulder heavy,

from brunches that

never happen,

to non-existent flowers

and sentimental

cards that are

never sent

and never

received.

Like an hourglass,

I measure the

intervals of time.

Time left,

the end of time,

the passage of time.

Two fragile bulbs

of glass,

and

free-flowing

sand.

A reminder of

the thing

to come.

This time

shall pass.

Time heals

all wounds,

you’ll see.

But I don’t see

the healing,

just the passing.

And then

a phone call

from the

littlest ones

singing “Happy

Birthday,”

even though

it’s

Mother’s Day.

There is

nothing,

nothing,

nothing,

that

compares.

As they sing,

the hourglass

fades and

melts away.