(for Ambronese)

    There was a home and a

family that belonged to her. Fragments in a diary. You’ve
    revealed your true self to
    me and now I must do the
same. The mysteries of my sorrows
    are like a constellation beyond
    the trees. Emptiness lingers
    here. It will be hours until
    I sleep. And when that fire
comes I will dream under nightfall. A million stars.
    It will be a quiet victory in

the morning hours. I search
for the familiar in progeny. Old photographs
pasted in wedding albums.
I find myself there as I pick up
this pen and begin to write.

While watching the first snow I think of mum

who believed (in me).
Sacrifice. To be good at
sacrifice, falling, falling
in love, worship, praise,

    solitude, standing, spontaneity. Not taking the spiritual flame for

granted. That the knowledge of
stems and atoms could
accomplish anything. All artists
are part of a community.
Light in the darkness come

to me now. Every tear, that had to fall.

The arrows are the reward.

    Tears were worth the sacrifice in
the end. Fire of my soul. The fire and volcano of my soul.

    The gnarled oak of my soul
adopted by a pale fire-woman and bittersweet
 
    day and night. When she
    wanted alone-time she left the child with us.
    I played mother. Even when he
    was an infant, I played mother.
She inhabits a world I do not know or understand.
   
    The world of wife and mother.
    The world of mother and lover.

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!