Estimated Reading Time 1 Minutes
To mothers who aren’t mothers yet,
I’m one of you, part of the set,
Of women who with empty arms,
And aching hearts, and wistful charm,
Long to hold a babe so sweet,
Next to your breast with love replete.
Like a bell pealing to the rhythm of time,
The ache deepens as years go by,
Echoing hopes and dreams unfulfilled,
It’s exceedingly hard to swallow a pill,
That leaves an aftertaste in your mouth,
Of absent laughter in an empty house.
It’s a grief as real as loved ones lost,
A hole in your soul that reaps a cost,
But like all pain it reveals the truth,
Wisdom replacing the aims of youth,
Life is good but bittersweet,
And of this fruit we all must eat.
And while the yearning never ceases,
Other joys we find can appease this,
Quiet heartache in the wind,
The sorrow lets the sunshine in,
Way down deep inside the soul,
Enabling growth despite the hole.
