Once in one hundred years of tears, I am dropped from my mother’s arms. Autumns neglect carries me far from my home until I get cast in the womb of a clay orphanage.
Winter has passed. The earth is released from between frost-like teeth, and I have found another Mother. She has loved me into a shallow grave and waits for my resurrection. My stomach erupts, young green skeletal arms reach towards the light. Without hurry I take my one and only new-born step. My face searches for the suns smile, my ears fill with the song of birds. I yearn to hold one in my palm.
Quick rapid growth past soft adolescence and I am no longer ungraceful, thin and raw-boned. The casing on my chest is rough; my arms many and strong. I breathe with confidence having secured my place as a young giant. I clutch at winter’s starry kiss, as it blows candyfloss ice across my broad shoulders. Within each cell my power grows.
Spring part 2.
Today I saw my birth mother in the distance, a veil of cloud crowned her majestic head. I waved with green palms but she does not recognise me. I am taller, stronger, and younger; I will out-rule her. I gaze at the horizon, impatient to see fatigued feathered friends as they return from the south. They will build their temporary sanctuaries in my stateliness.
My almost audible flowers whose sound echoes silence bid farewell to this year’s fledglings. I forget the number I have nurtured in my arms, or those who never returned. Time is the cloak of my immortality. Only Mother and the Sun are older than I. Each leafy fingertip has traced the face of heaven; each rooted toe gouged the bowel of hell. I have seen all, heard all, from the barking dogs of thunder to each season’s sensual sigh.
Autumn part 2.
Rapture. One hundred years of tears slash the earth and I recall a distant memory sharper than lightening. My seed child is carried by autumns surging tide far from my expansive reach. It is likely she will acknowledge her birthplace; more likely, she will not.
There is no pain.