To a Mother whose effort isn't always appreciated:

Labor

She rises in the early morn,

when sun still slumbers in a quilt of night sky,

donning her scrubs to work

in the surgical stillness of sterile rooms.

Her hands hold instruments with

the same stillness her surroundings demand.

She makes few decisions, merely stands in place

on feet for aching hours,

straddling the string between life and death.

When she comes home, her fury flares

for but a moment from the frustration

of the day’s doings. But as I rub her

swollen feet through the softness of

her socks, she smiles and sighs, and

glances knowingly at me.

Her work isn’t in vain;

it is a labor of love.

- Happy Birthday!