I am flawed at the seams,
A fragile vessel attempting the impossible,
To nurture another being from inception,
Through being as imperfect as she is,
Up into a bloom,
I am unsuited for such work,
And yet no hands but my own are made for it,
Fashioned,
With creases that match the shape of her tiny form,
Worn, but more ready than any other,
A molded human clay,
By living experience,
Mother.
Suited
She of Letters 