For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.

 

The tender leaves of the brandy-wine have grown cut and distinct

from those of the beefsteak.

They are ready to begin the process of becoming hardened-off

for the world outside.

Moving tomato starts from house to garden,

from perpetual day under ultraviolet light

to cycles of day and night;

exposing them to sun and moon shine,

to rain and wind–

acts of faith.

I blow them kisses,

I pray for their survival.

I remember the careful sowing of seeds–

the tending, the watering, the watching.

In three days, I will gently tease their dense roots.

I will place them in prepared soil.

I will intuit the pleasure of moving

from the boundaries of a small pot into earth expansive.

*I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women, 2006.