My mother is not. She is moss. She is cedar. She is jade. I am no one's daughter. I am a space in the lace of Bride's crown; I am shadow dancing in the shimmer of brocade. I am willow pining, water winding home below the falls. I am dogwood centred from all the trees--in a rush of confusion as the nails enter. Say you have chosen, not forsaken me. Tell me this pain is ecstasy.
© jmb
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