The Mother Goddess

The Mother works beneath a tree
All through the sultry afternoon
A basket heavy at her knee
As she picks peaches sweet as June.

She loves her labor, branch and root,
And blesses honest sweat that flows.
As ripe and rich as any fruit,
The full moon in her belly grows.

Her arms are strong, her hands are brown.
What she creates is bright with life.
No mortal queen wore finer crown. . .
But yonder winter hones its knife.