Peekaboo

When I was green and just a meter high,
you tended to my care with gentle hands.
From wanting juice, to not wanting to die,
I had concerns, and you had names of bands.
I do not think I can begin to thank
some Mother in our short forgotten past
who reared us all, confused enough to spank,
but kind enough to put our difference last.
(Thank mothers’ mothers’ mothers for your touch.)
All we’ve once touched becomes the Earth again,
and She, a little girl, whose fingers clutch
at Mommy, hides Her face and counts to ten.
The memory precedes the magic show.
I love. You taught me this, of all I know.