I will kiss the feet of my mother. I am not ashamed to bow down towards grass, wet with clear sky water. I will bow  down to her
who birthed me, in whose center I was housed, in whose waters I swam, from conception to the coming out. Bow down to her who gave me life, kiss the flesh–each digit achy with gout, the tireless travel of the old,  the bearing  of things unseen.

Harvester of wheat and planter of seeds, the farmland  and the plow, where her hands touched soft, cold earth  crumbling through fingers, the bearing of flesh that rose up out of her,  rising still, her children’s children,  and then theirs.

I bow down to my human statue, my stronghold.  Sun comes down, and the light around her head is white. And I, last born, on my knees  before her, kiss the bones underneath the skin, the toes that ache with year, eighty-one peeled down
like skins of island fruit, each one bearing sweet flesh within, and the bitter pit  we all must come to.

This she plants again and sees it rise, not from window, but from her place in skies, when, after years, she will go on living in clouds, between suns, looking down on this ground, where her feet stood, planted.

by Marian Haddad