Blessed be this lap that holds her son,
his imagination squirming deep
in wood, her warmth folded into walnut,
mother and child chiseled from one bough.
Blessed be the way they pull me back
to my mother’s cradle of flesh, yearning
solid, intense, older than thought.
Blessed be the ways we complete one another,
how flesh grows from spirit, wisdom
matures in flesh. This slow revealing
quickens in a dim chapel.