Mother, daughter, child of my womb, the center of earth’s desires and the kernel in my heart. Deliver the ripeness of your spirit to the indigent, to the empty ones that suck at your breast, consider the weary and the worn soles that stagger towards you.

You are the light of the future, the distance in the past, you are the angel of mercy, yet you retain the power to demolish and to reprimand the wayward. Why is it that you can master the sides that are barely visible, why is it that you can smile and cry at the same time, that your hand as gentle as it is can be the formidable force to change directions?

You waver not, you stand guard even as the saliva of the assaulters wash your face and the winds of time blind your outer eyes, why do you see so clearly when you shouldn’t? Mother, your clothes are tattered, and you shine so brightly, even when ignored; your guidance continues to snake its way in front. Daughter, crying doesn’t help; it bleeds the heart but heals nothing. You carry the lead sword close to your breast, you deposit piles of sadness in your path and then you fall, tripping on the past.

The road is ever going forward, and long shadows follow. Three is the magic number and nobody seems to care. The hand is stretched but blasted by sand, the heart is open, but anger stands in the way and the mouth is crying for rescue as days and weeks contribute to understanding and questions. Why? Mother is there, daughter is here…but where am I?

CJM