QueenofDawn

     It was cold.

Two figures, lost in wind
in snow
knee-deep, frozen, piling
around their faces,
nose rose-pink,
eyes scratched.

One holds the kindling.
One holds the match.

And the grey comes, cold, creeping
trembling

I know the place
just above my eyes
where the pressure builds.
It fills to not-quite overflowing,
tears refusing to 
touch my skin.

And if the clouds clutched their raindrops,
refusing to release,
refusing

The tree stands in a lull in the forest,
quiet,
branches like a dancer’s arms
bent to the wind.

Its leaves filter yellow sunbeams,
shiver in the cold fall air,
break,
one by one, 
to drift to the ground.

Don’t let them break you.
Don’t let them make you into something that can be molded
like clay
like sand
like you belong in their hands. 

You were never clay.
You are breath-blown glass,
unmelted and unyielding.

Mama, why do I feel so alone?
Sometimes, you are too big for the world. You are full, too full, full to the eyes.
Then why do I feel so empty?
Sometimes, you are too big for yourself, too.