When I was a child
I spoke to the woods and new born wind

I graduated to statues, creations and overstated young adults
soon enough

As a woman, I made the attempt to talk with my children
But they only heard me as someone who could no longer hear them

They played with the earth, splashing in the mud,
Smearing their bodies; immune to human construct

While we lapsed the sun
I waited and heard, grew old

Manipulated by daylight and tugged from gravity
Now dressed in the delicate nightgown of grey hair

I do not impart my words on the children's children, as overly epistemological
as overly imparted

In the thick crimson of my solitary mind
I know I have done right

The last words, closing thoughts
moments eternally returned

My conversation with the wind, god's heartbeat of the sky,
It goes on

06/21/2010

Posted on 06/22/2010
Copyright © 2025 H.M Stevens