Motherless

Yesterday I told you
I have no regrets
That I look ahead
not back
and today I feel
a pang of sorrow
because my garden isn’t blooming
lush, teaming with colors.
When it was time
to saw the seeds
my attention was elsewhere.
Have I no regrets?
Why do I rush to proclaim it?
Am I not still a small child
looking through people’s windows
observing a life,
a nest of security and love?
Does it not pain me
that inside me
there is still a homeless motherless child
without a loving nest
whose daily diet is
dread of what might be
whose quest for foreverness
is her only consolation?