My Mother

At times I sit and cry because the earth feels sad. I cry as if I was crying on her behalf. The symphony of her tears shakes her core, the roots beneath the ground, the depths of the oceans, the rise of the mountains. Above, the air turns grey. Ashes fall and cover our skin. The shadows follow us day and night. No sun lights the land. No moon smiles and lulls the stars to sleep. But her praise stands in our benefit. Raise our weapons of words. The stones we hurdle that strike the crumbling edges. Nothing can withstand such thrashing.

I cry because she's afraid of what will happen next. How she will react to her pain. All the scars we carve and forgive ourselves. No one to blame. Stand believing we are part of her, too. Not a separate entity to do as we please. To assault without consequence. Everything eventually bleeds… and here in the maroon rain, I bathe faltering at my excuses and forgiveness. The title of my entitlement pushes me down to my knees as the tears roll down my cheeks to my chest, across my arms to my fingertips.

I am one part of this mechanism. Part of a machine that's bigger than me that can consume without notice.

I am the puzzle piece that fits in its missing place among quarks flickering on and off. I am godless but with deity. The celestial noise that if listened to shares her truth without conditions and rules. The secrets revealed and concealed in the fabric of our synapse. The impulses guide us to action and belief.

I am one part to ignite sparks and create fireworks or demolish what has been created and given because it's a rhythmical course. A path to grow and contract like air breathed into our lungs and expunged in an exhale.

I cry to ease her pain, to tell her I am part of her. I cry to understand her silence, whispers, and roars. The thunder that strikes. The winds that topple dead forests returning home and seedling generations of prosperity and life.

I cry because she forged her rebirth to a standstill. She has aged with anguish and lessons. She has weathered winters and summers, the burrowing and the ascendance. She has held the microscopic and the immense, but she remains withstanding it all. The brutality of our onslaughts through eons and welcomes a new day as a new cycle with a beating heart. She is our mother, protecting, teaching, and nurturing. We better acknowledge her existence. Press our palm to her soul and thank her with the most sincerity and gratitude. No price will ever replace her presence.

I will echo this prayer 'til my feet fuse with the soil, 'til my fingers flex like shriveling grass blades in the wind. I will echo this prayer 'til my eyes shine like stars, 'til my mouth only beams the rays of the sun. I will echo this prayer 'til I remember she's my mother

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