A Rolling Stone
The journey of mothering is a rolling stone on a hill,
Continually gathering speed.
The clumps of grass, the tree trunks, and hillocks
Only serve to pause the journey for the shortest of moments–
Perhaps just long enough to snap a photo
and freeze the instant in time.
And then the stone races on,
closer and closer…
The end of mothering,
as the fledglings fly.