I don't know about all of you who write poetry, but most of my poems take me a little slice of forever before I'm satisfied with them.  


This is my one form of writing that I seem to throw and re-throw as though it's a clay pot that simply won't work itself into the shape I'm envisioning.  This means these ever-changing writings can be rendered into as many as 20 different versions of the same poem.  


What follows is a poem I wrote several years ago entitled, "Hen Sitting," but this is another version.  I'm not so sure I'm completely content with this run at it; however, truth be told, I'm not so sure I'm completely content with any writing I do, poetry or otherwise.  I just know that each piece casts my words into the amber of the moment in time and I must let them go, imperfect or not.


In honor of Mother's Day I humbly offer up, "Hen Sitting" which I wrote when waiting for one of my children to receive the results of her audition.

The Mother Hen