Clinging little hands on her skirt smells of perfumed air and wisps of feathers touching my cheeks she moves through branches rising tree of life as earth below so cold plunged my soul before one butterfly kiss her graying hair goodbye to innocence soar the stolen sky where demons cast smoke blinding heaven and she is perfecting prayerfully nesting where once she built our home a hidden shelter in loving shadows shielding the world from my gaze waiting for mama.
Dedicated to the young women, and all the precious souls stolen on October 7th, 2023.
As I was gardening this week, I looked to where my husband told me, deep into the rubber tree to see them. All I could think of was how they were sitting alone waiting for their mama.
Aren’t we all? When we are sick, hurting, lost, in danger, stolen, our homing instinct runs toward the womb of our frail beginnings constantly yearning for home.
“I remember, May 1944, I was 15-and-a-half, and I was thrown into a haunted universe where the story of the human adventure seemed to swing irrevocably between horror and malediction.”
- Elie Wiesel
So very heartfelt, sincere with deep aching beauty.
At our last house, there was a birdhouse in front of the kitchen window. It was such a joy every spring to watch the birds raise their babies, what a racket when they were all hungry, how sad when they all flew away. ❤️💔
War is repulsive, and the pawns on both sides loose. ✨🙏