From the opposite side, I watched the murder
some might say suicide.
It seemed though to be racing and there was never an attempt to waver.
Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right
then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
the wounding is the same
self inflicted in moments perceived through lenses lost in time
birthing shame
eternal scenes rehearsed to protect a shattered soul from love scorned
beholding fear
so taught by mothers and mother’s mothers until each is carried
beyond this
gasping
Time leaked
spaces feared and forgotten
memories wreaked
with daily breath once harboring hope and love.
The mountains hug forgotten ones
Souls known in gestures centuries old.
Wonderfully wild and high enough
where clouds can wet their tears and soften edges
All in breathless upward climb in rhythm find
a peaceful soul
and a memory, union sweet.
Then falling down in gasps of fear darker turns and twists
My footing gone
the mountain moves
in outward reach
– embrace.
Open and vulnerable.
