Poem for Midlife women and their Mothers

August Third
by May Sarton

These days
lifting myself up
like a heavy weight,
old camel getting to her knees
I think of my mother
and the inexhaustible flame
that kept her alive
until she died.

She knew all about fatigue
and how one pushes it aside
for staking up the lilies
early in the morning,
the way one pushes it aside
for a friend in need,
for a hungry cat.

Mother, be with me
today on your birthday.
I am older than you were
when you died
thirty-five years ago.
Thinking of you
the old camel gets to her knees,
stands up,

Moves forward slowly
into the new day.

If you taught me one thing
It was never to fail life.

Trust

(c) Free nature photos

a woman with too many poems in her hair
can never get enough
blue sky
the world misses her
wildness

for her, the world starts above the trees,
up
with the wisps of cloud

she flies on the back
of the blue=tailed swallow
high enough to sing, or she swings,

a leggy girl with pointed toes
pumping higher until she can see
over fences
over rose bushes
right into the blue water
of the swimming pool next door

& she learns to trust
the air that heaves her
far from earth

little beetle with silver wings
takes flight, circles
overhead
then flies diretly
into the sun

from Little Mother, Hochelaga Press, 1997
originally published in Index, the Montreal
literary calendar, 1995