like scraping out a vessel for the last serving
then scrubbing it clean to use again
motherhood empties us

we give of ourselves 
and try to forgive ourselves
for not knowing 
        when to let the them cry 
            or fall
            or go
while figuring out our lives, too

and now, we might be able to recognize different cries,
        but we are still figuring out our lives
        and unsure of the letting go,
and we hope
         that any hurts were the kind that helped them grow,
and we hope
        that they have forgotten our anger,
and, oh, how we hope
        that they can forgive us
        as we continue to forgive ourselves

always it has been
the honey-milk smell of their crowns
and their worth to us more than many sparrows
miraculously filling us again