In the swell of her once fruitful belly
She holds herself still, but unsteady
A palliative breeze spreads across the plains
with no murmur of the strife from
the other side
Life is an island with nudges and reminders
An agenda (as full as her emergent mane)
tugs and writes itself, as twisted alarm bells
ring out their solace before tired eyes
and jaded ears
She is empty and frustrated, not complete
Worn and doubting, not threadbare
Lost and wandering, not without faith
Weakened and crouching,
never invertebrate
A storm will soon rage its hypertrophic scar
In familiar futility and final necessity
She will hold strong this time, to the crumbling earth
Rebuilding the pieces herself in entirety
when it is done
SRWB 2010
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