Sonnet of Motherhood XI  – Zora Bernice May Cross

A miracle of miracles is here.

Take off your shoes. This place is holy ground.

No man-child ours like that the shepherd found

By dreaming Mary when the Star burned clear.

Our God has given us a woman, dear,

With satin skin her dimpling shoulders round.

No pinkest shell with sea-blown bubbles crowned

Could match the marvel of her tiny ear.
How like to me, and yet ’tis you—all you.

I dare not touch her. Take your soul, My Own.

Set in my body with your mind, your sight,

Your dreams and thoughts with every promise true—

A queen to sit upon a regal throne

With a man’s soul won out of woman’s right. 

Zora Bernice May Cross

Sonnet  of Motherhood XIV – Zora Bernice May Cross 

Dearest, your mother feels (though dead) this birth—

Laughs at the fire within your shining eyes—

Your eyes, yet mine, wherein such glory lies

Never before beheld upon the earth.

She scents the fragrance of the lily-mirth

Lilting this body that I drew all-wise

Out of your own, so hers, and with low sighs,

Mellowed in mine to what a wondrous worth.
Kiss me. Kiss her. The miracle is wrought—

The simple beauty out of simple love—

Mother and father, child and God—all One—

Eternal trinity for ever sought.

O, blessed from her quiet place above,

Your mother kisses us—a life’s work done. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XXIV – Zora Bernice May Cross 

How many holy women mothered me

And brought me to perfection for this hour,

When from my being all the living power

Of sweetest woman should at last flow free?

Aeons on Aeons on a loving knee

Some woman rocked me in her scented bower,

Till my soul bloomed an everlasting flower

Calling with fragrance to a singing bee.
You came. You saw me. And because in you

A myriad mothers all their love had spread,

Those holy women since the dawn of day

Gave you the promise of a master true…

Dearest, that bee unto the flower was wed

When your song fitted with my humble lay. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XXIX – Zora Bernice May Cross 

How strangely lone unto myself I grow,

Listening and looking for I know not what;

Turning my head with terror cold and hot

At wandering whispers of a music low!

Familiar pieces of my being flow

Far, far away, to thymy hill and plot,

While chained to patience in this close-shut spot

I sit apart from everything I know.
O Love, I fear the loneness of my limbs

Leaning to nothing to their solitude.

Draw up the blinds and let the stars rush in,

The mournful moon and all the air she swims.

I would not languish in my mother-mood

While just without earth makes her old, mad din.