I am the womb of this place
(you are my funny little egg
racing about on your funny little legs).
I am your mother’s breast, your warm milk
(your skin is soft as silk).
I am your cake, your fresh bread,
your soup waiting by the bed,
(your scent is not
less sweet than any of these).
I am the cradle, generations old,
the chair that rocks you, the doll you hold;
I am comfort and caution, never cruel;
I am time wound up on a spool,
the quilt that covers, the bird that hovers,
painted on these dear womb walls;
I am the net that keeps you safe from falls.
I am the nest
(you are all the rest),
never leave me.
Previously posted at:
Dreamhouse: Dreams: Nursery:
where it was last modified September 16, 1995 (but probably originally written in 1994).