Flesh of my flesh, in essence your own;
I nurtured and loved what God gave on loan;
Our time in the water has quickly slipped by;
I gave you your wings – child, take to the sky.
Let Nature speak –
in syllables untypable,
nuances not uttered in
words so much as living
letters which etch life into the
living. Let Nature
write – phrases
one breeze-breadth
long, one sunset soliloquy
wide, one pollen-laced
paragraph high.
She prints her poem
onto recycled papyrus,
onto hearts grown green –
who will read it to our
children? Who will
translate her manuscript
without editing out her soul?
Emptied,
she waits
for her children
to drop by,
call,
bring heaps of dirty laundry,
anything.
Emptied,
she waits,
silent heart
shrivelling.
Little does she know
that when her progeny
dropped from her grasp,
one day
the sun would shine
and seed would spawn
and green grandchildren
would spring up
to fill her quiver
full.