Another permanent link just went up to "The Mother", a poem by Harlem Renaissance poet Gwendolyn Brooks.
Some lines from the poem:
"Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried."