I am sometime restless
with anger, bitterness and shame.

The unwelcomed child
overcomes the educated man
and polished professional.

The wisedom taught in parenting
I sometime hold at arms length.
I see what I need
yet I sometime need not to understand.

I seek the familiar comfort
I rest in sadness and self doubt.
My mothers were good women.
Thoughtful women, who wanted
all things for me.

Yet the pale gray veil
of separation and loss
will often blanket me like
San Francisco fog.

My mothers were good women.
Yet here I stand.