A mother is the center of a house.

Her arms unfurl like ribbons,

pulling every aspect of our lives

into her embrace.

From the moment her feet slip into those powder blue sandals

to when the moonlight cuts a shaft across her sleeping form,

she keeps the world turning on its axis.

Lying there in the dark, her dreams wash over

like pictures of vacations from other lives.

One day, another bed will claim her, far away,

and we will sit around her and cry

and tie ribbons in her hair.