For the Mother
Who Slept in the Snow
She slept in
your house and now she has built a house in snow, you hoped to follow
the strange bird in her, that she hoped to follow, but you couldn’t
catch up, with your mother who made a refuge for herself, the heat
of confusion keeping out the cold, whilst it ate her skin alive, I
think she was waiting for you, whilst snow weighted needles burst
into fire, the frozen air talking in static, in a sleep that came
deeper and deeper from the woods, her strange unearthly company, or
she may have laughed and sobbed out there, imagining your small hands
over her eyelids, whilst living in orbit, how could she hope to be
found by you?, it would be like trying to hold onto a cloud, never
forget it was bitterly cold, I think the pines were watchful, as they
swayed with the solid ice in them, but the branches were confusing
to her, she lived in the world apart from nature, you know she would
have died out there, I think she was waiting to be found, in her quieter
moments, she feared the movement of wind, fragmentation then nothing
at all, we wait by a waterfall to heal ourselves, we fall asleep on
the rocks, hoping that when we wake the pain will be gone, dispersed
by water travelling through water, know that some part of her was
refreshed, you saw her colossal attempt at an exit through a boy’s
eyes, you picked the rags of her out of the dirt, as if to you they
were the most holy possessions on earth, think of her as a deer who
kept up with the herd, her mind went with them and it never came back.
