Tomorrow is Mother's Day. This poem does touch upon motherhood. St. Drogo's mother died in childbirth. She made the ultimate sacrifice for her baby. I'm not sure if many people would consider this poem appropriate for a celebration of mothers, but I do. It reminds me of everything noble about motherhood.
Saint Marty salutes all mothers this evening, in prelude to tomorrow.
Prayer to St. Drogo of Sebourg
by: James Scannell McCormick
You: no sooner come to a life folden
And fine as a psalter's roundel (lovers, say,
In April -- blue cloaked, posed and poised on a lawn
Of pinks) -- unmothered. She died in birthing you.
In the west, the Channel heaved, mussel-indigo:
What is having to loss? Forgone of your
Belongings, you, sinful pilgrim, walked to
Rome in penitence. Again. Again. We are
Sinners, all. And yet who gave any thanks
Or help -- a cup of warmth, a free inglenook-
Seat? When sickness blistered your face to flanks
Of skinned hares, and no one would bear to look
At you, you sealed yourself in a hermit's cell --
So smallest comfort serves to preserve our souls.