an old poem that seemed relevant again

Emptying the Nest
Shreds of motherhood
like gossamer filament of spider web
stepped through, broken, no longer usable
hang about me on this August evening
while crickets spread conversation
like a Walton goodnight

Inside children
tackle algebra
boyfriends
sing about bologna
and draw portraits of themselves
with number two pencils

Outside I
rock myself in summer stillness
aware mostly of what I cannot see
knowing mostly what I cannot know

Like manna
or love
my motherhood is meant to be spent
like this morning’s spider web in the garden
usable only one day.