mothers of sons

outside my window
the blossoms of a flowering tree
bob in the wind at the ends of branches
like the heads of boys in the arms
of a tired mother

the boys, these blossoms, are
restless and eager
and the mother, this tree, bends
her arms to let them wag but refuses
to release them entirely

i don't know the names of the flowers
on all those sun-laden trees
any more than I know the names of the mothers
who have held their wagging boys
on the sunny days of the years of the past

but i know one mother
who held a once-ambitious boy
to her breast on the day
he let the winds carry him
away, finally

and the falling-off
and the falling away down
was a pull on her soul
as painful as his birth was on
her womb

so i understand why
mothers and trees don't give up
their head-bobbing boys
very easily
for the double pain of it

and yet they give it
and give it all
knowing and knowing
and yet they still give it
all for their head-bobbing boys