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She was a stagnant river,
flowing without clarity.
Yet on the surface,
ripples indicated life.
No-one could perceive
the stones lobbed with force
would break through so,
creating ever-decreasing circles
and stirring up the murky depths
until there was nothing below
but thick black mulch.
I should have known.
Born from my womb,
connected by life blood,
her river flowed from me.
Dead from the neck up,
emotionally paralysed,
void of thoughts -
she was a blank page,
once written upon
but only in pencil.
Time had faded her tale
yet, like a player,
she staged it well
showing re-runs -
repeats of polished performances.
Behind glazed eyes, unreadable.
I should have known.
I, who helped write her life,
should have seen it fade.
Balancing on the precipice,
she teeters but does not fall.
Her eyes stare into mine,
the once vibrant sparkle
invisible to the naked eye.
And I see. Finally I know.
With aching heart
and shards of glassy tears
ripping at my eyes,
I hold her, my daughter,
my precious girl.
I cannot promise miracles
but as seasons change
with light and warmth,
so shall her winter turn to spring.