We imbue our mothering with the ghost of our other children

The empty embrace of the one we just sent away
causes us to cling ever tightly to the one in front of us

The overflowing vessel of a love we never got to pour
floods the existence of the next to come into being

It is never only about the child in question

Our actions are the answer to all 
the worries
       hopes 
       fears 
       attachments 
       neurosis and 
       emotional stability within us.

It is a web
we can only see 
when the sun 
alights
on the tips
of frozen blades
of grass