As the moon grew full
so did the sorrow in her mind,
the night she picked up the knife
instead of the pen
For the drops on the floor were more poetically true of
her innerself than her open ended words on that paper
could ever be...

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

Fourteen years ago when I held you in my arms, it seemed surreal. So fragile you were and like a tiny doll. Only God knows how much I miss being able to pick you up and hug you tightly close to my heart whenever I feel depressed.
And yet I love you now all the more. You are so special to me and always shall be. Our family has shared so many joys and so much heartbreak through the swiftly passing years.
You are sunshine and daybreak and iridescent rainbow hues.
The baby has been replaced with a very special friend.


Happy Birthday Sweet Daughter!


Much Love,
From Your Mother

I had a dream last night
that we were perfect, happily loving each other

Then i awoke from the dream
to find you aren't mine and I'm
just a fool with a beautiful dream
of you holding me tight.