The apple blossom petals are falling,
the delicate white moons fluttering like snow flakes
down to the green orchard floor,
the scent gauzy-light and sweet on the gentle breeze. 

I sit in the hammock,
lulled by the thrumming of the bees and robin calls
while my daughter nurses and then sleeps at my breast.

We don't talk so much about the sensuousness of being a mother.
The deep nourishment of that so soft
skin on skin,
the intimate pleasure that comes
from the weight of her body,
the sharing of breath and warmth
with one so new to life.

Never have I given so many kisses,
or gazed so deep and so long into another's eyes.
Never have I slept so many nights
with my body curled so closely around another's,
her hair tickling my lips with each inhale.
Never have I bathed or breathed or sang
with another's sacred heart pressed so close to my own. 

Is this how it used to be,
when our ancestors all slept and ate and played together,
enjoying the nearness of everyone all at once?

I close my eyes and listen to her soft noises
as she turns her small head against my chest,
her tiny hands resting on my belly as she sleeps.
Her mouth finds my hand to gum with drooling lips.

Thank you for this gift of being a mother.
Of all things, it is the most naturally, tenderly human
I have ever been.