THE CLOSET MYSTIC

nature, mother,

sing to my sorrow

a lullaby

put her into slumber

~

for she needs her beauty rest

and then when she awakes,

with the new day,

she will be born again,

and then her title

will be joy,

filled to the brim

with possibility,

wonder,

and awe

~

birdsong

whistling wind

rustling leaves,

nurse my pain.