Flowers for All Mothers

especially mothers of Black sons

In the author’s garden

The Mother of us all comes, lovely Spring,
To fill the house with color, asserting
Each year again the beauty of this world
In every open flower, in leaves still curled.
And yet She weeps to see her children kill
Each other for no reason–no good will
Can build but hate-filled ignorance must grow, too,
We weep with Her, but what more can we do?
The child of my own…