My mother was the very best
at painting pots of gold at rainbow’s end
of believing in the prince who’d come
and how every broken heart could mend.

But now no silver lines the batterring, gusting mass
I hold the lifeless hand of hope that’s passed.

Once more alone, ice-wind wrapped, enfulged in ebony
My face is slick with rain of grief,
spirit bruised beyond belief
I slump bereft; the storm is all my soul can see,
for the darkest part of dawn preceeds no light,
no morning breaks for me.

But wait, what message there upon the shoals of blight,
pink infant fingers reaching up and pulling down the night.

Strange lesson taught by yonder orb
Caressing calming stormy trees
Day has no need of my faith to begin
Appointed cycle complete
Night will end.

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