The Grandmother

All of this waiting that stands between, swimming against belligerence, is the living spirit of that which came before. Before the birthday, the holiday, the week, when my kind knew the earth held secrets; valleys wielded something greater than consumption. The Great Grandmother takes my hand and walks me to me. She wrestles my ego, rage and hate and sightlessness from my stale grip and lifts my eyes to grasp where I am.

I know nothing. Nothing of who I thought I was. Nothing of who I imagined I had become. But the waiting, the hesitation for no real cause, bares nothing fruitful, nothing green or living. Love’s missing from the skies. It's shriveled up, blooming no more its admiration, its goodness. All of this waiting like a mannequin in a storefront window, eyes wide hopeless, missing the call for tranquility, now ushers in a most hurried and depraved war as substitute. Peace cannot be defeated by the bloodiest of wars and only instructs to see that I haven’t the will to finish the deed and slay all the remaining Love.

The Mother, The Grandmother, The Great Grandmother, is the eartH and everything in between. She brushes against my thoughts and lodges her truth into me like a kitten playing at my feet. She is waiting for my answer, holding out for my love to come flooding the dry bones. Her mouth licks the air, my hands reach out and embraces her limbs as children.

© 2011 by mark prime