A mother’s world consists
of countless interruptions,
smashing her thoughts
back to reality,
back to the spilled cranberry juice,
a red puddle of accusation
on the carpet.
All attention, however fragmented, must be aimed
at the child at hand,
by the mother.
Ideas fall away in a shower of glittering fragments,
yet tiny moments of clarity remain.
Collect the shards,
crystalline, sparkling, porcelain, mirrored,
Capture them in your notebook.
The child will grow,
And you will have created a shimmering mosaic;
words and ideas, lost times, sketches,
Your notebook is your treasure chest.
Not a word will ever be wasted.