ode to my mama, a hellebora

for her 50th birthday
my mum celebrated among shelves of books,
in the town where she grew up,
on the mountains with her children,
in a kitchen with her friends,
travelling westwards with her husband

with quiet air,
a cake with fresh sugared violas,
walks in the pouring rain,

I love that woman.
Not just because she has the softest skin,
the most gracious heart,
the strongest of faiths,
that she has convicting hand-gestures,
an insatiable love for words and books
and babies and beautiful natural things
because she is my mama,
and my best friend,

they say that a woman of wisdom,
is like a life-giving tree,
or I think
like a hellebora
growing humble and ancient underneath

and those who lay hold of her will be blessed,

that is my mama,
indeed.