POETRY

Motherhood of the Divine

She has no face 
yet holds us all in her gaze.
We came from her darkness and
are birthed into her Light.

She assumes many shapes, tells
many stories, wears many masks.
She is the space behind them all 
that has no beginning and no end.
She is the ten thousand arms tenderly, 
compassionately, holding the world.

Sometimes she sits serenely as a mountain,
singing the melody of a songbird, and yet
She lives in the valley of the ordinary,
extending Her garden to the ends of the earth.
She is the Mystery from which we were birthed,
the Mystery to which we are returned.

She is the night sky wearing a necklace
of the Milky way, with a thousand 
sparkling jewels in her hair.
At dawn, She is the Morning Star
that appeared when Shakyamuni 
became the Buddha.

Her wind blows a single moment into form
and then blows it on into the vast beyond.
She is the vessel of all,
the One who lets all things be.
She spins stories from eternity
and passes them on to her children.

She is you; She is me.
She is unceasingly pregnant
with the Divine in each of us.
You can hear her as the running stream
and see her when you look into a mirror.
She is gazing through your eyes.

© Dorothy Hunt
  

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