I am the one who survived
I am the one who survived
I am gathering the broken pieces
at harvest
They stretch their arms out
from beneath their early graves
I know they are ready when I hear them
screaming for order
When they begin to drown in perpetuated
chaos or anguish
I pluck them only when they are ready
When the earth around them goes soft
and Mother sees she can trust me with the rest
Mother
she’s in the business of wholeness
I’ve seen
each year
her gift for completion
Her only war
is a war on trust
I surrendered to Mother when I laid with her
Ear to her breast, I listened
and learned how she holds each piece of me
until it is ready for rebirth
The grave is a womb for the broken
It’s where fallen leaves go to survive the trauma
of winter
It is there that they await the harvest
It is there that I tend the crops
And leave flowers
like kisses
on the cheeks of my past self
