—the mother who cries, cries inside, and waits in her room alone.
awaits the wind that moves in stillness — cropped into characteristics she owns.
her soul may paint the colors of her tomb — the broken moth in the window sill—
a rose, that never bloomed.
she steals the light of every day, in her time of quietness she tucks away
somewhere in winter, for her coming may. and how at times, she looks that way,
when she dreams of thirty-two.
again, some word, some faded song, will catch her moving in the night—
weightless, and drifting in the light, as dancing with shadows or forgotten dreams
that waited the years, to move her heart — lift up the magic, and live the part.
but only in these moments passed, lives out that, which can never last—
to absorb the dream, the weighted cast, that locked in her gifts, and splendid ways,
that a stranger's kiss could not decay.
a scent that flies amidst the darkness, cries the child's voice softly...
the inner light, that preserves it's flight — motion of wing, to night,
till when in spring it's rest shall come, somewhere between what is right, and wrong—
fear of all that is death, be gone!
our fragile wings will stand their test, and break apart upon the shore,
at last when winter returns again ... to find them sleeping, here once more.
© 27/11/04 David T Culver
