When did this
And when did this little cutie
Turn into this beautiful creature?
And this one
Become a man?
The journey of mothering is a rolling stone on a hill,
Continually gathering speed.
The clumps of grass, the tree trunks, and hillocks
Only serve to pause the journey for the shortest of moments--
Perhaps just long enough to snap a photo
and freeze the instant in time.
And then the stone races on,
closer and closer...
The end of mothering,
as the fledglings fly.