Home is where a Mothers Heart is

The mothers in Montana are reminiscent of the winters,

enduring.

They print a road map, engrave it in their mind.

Trekking across the state from one sports game to the next.

If their car breaks down on the way, they'll change the tire.

Lug wrench tight in the fist,

a weapon, a warning, don't keep me from my kid.

They are brazen,

holding a hot iron to the chest of their sons.

Branding him a man before his time,

only so that he will learn to be a good one.

They are soft,

a shelter in the midst of the 8th, 80th, 800th storm.

They grow tired, weary, but never falter.

Holding their heads, and their babies,

high above the drifts.

The mothers in Montana

patch holes in their daughter's jeans,

using the stitches of respect.

Teaching them to love themselves,

while carrying a knife, bear spray, a gun.

A Tiffany blue box full of bullets, tucked away in the closet.

Their protection, worth more than a diamond.

They can give it to themselves.

They have ribs like crowbar,

and with a hug or a squeeze,

pry open their husbands chest,

unfurl his clenched fist.

Allowing the labors of his day-to-day to rustle

like leaves in the wind.

They move like the water in the river

they reside nearest.

Graceful where need be,

rapid in times of desperation.

Their beauty, ever-changing.

But consistent,

nonetheless.

They laugh like a steak knife,

sawing into the core of all who can hear.

Their windswept smiles,

reminiscent of their youth.

The mothers in Montana are comparable to the earth,

sustaining.