Mary At Home Poem by James Mullaney

The sunrise finds you mending broken toys
for Jesus. Softly rouse him. You sing hymns,
boil curds - then off he stomps with other boys.
The hills hint modestly of cedar limbs.
Blessed are they who shun the world's conceits
who never shrink from anonymous toil
who still shake out the sandy linen sheets
prepare unleavened bread, and olive oil.
A mother's love tells on tongues of true bells
from age to age in the Star of the Sea.
Chaste is the chalice where our Saviour dwells
fired with dominion and for you, Mary,
who never waxed more flush than at the hearth;
who supped the bosom bliss of planet earth.