Winter comes and goes,
white fleece coating games of tag,
petals of all colors shriveling
into an anxious fret,
buried in the soil
just as those before them,
only to grow and flourish in the spring,
a new game of tag emerging,
a new friend found,
included like family from day one.
A family may be tied
with the thinnest of knots,
a frail reminder that blood
is nothing more than a liquid,
draining as the dust settles,
going extinct as the calendar renews.
Or, in the sweetest of holy dreams,
a family may be sautered with stardust,
existing into infinity,
something even distance
couldn’t dare to separate.
That is what we are.
A living slumber,
a mother too young
to understand heartbreak,
eyes closed for so long
she may never wake.
You are my children,
brighter than the colors on a rainbow,
the trail leading to the gold
of your brother’s hair,
the trophy you’ll never win,
the ring he’ll never give you.
Because he doesn’t exist,
my angel, and like the heavens,
you shall always remain a mystery.
A mystery I will continue to solve,
but a mystery I will never close.
