She is a giant among women, breasts heavy, full, rounded, uneven. Her shoulders carry the burden of healing old wounds, patching up cells that disobey orders, attending to blood that cannot run clean.
Her shaken form is a salute to life itself but it is not of the life she left. Remission robs, recklessly, and in its retreat leaves barriers to ward off tenacious and happy endings. She looks no further than the day. She cannot see beyond one minute more. She must master the moment, one foot plodding in front of the other, and walk through the forest of stillness cursing damned death. .
The mind tells stories to lull us to sleep. But, vigilant, we watch you creep up into the clearing. These meadows are re-planted with wildflowers. Don’t you see them? There’s thistle with cactus, dormant but growing. Something strong always rises from weary roots, withered and grey.
Talking in the riddles of sunshine she stretches full force, sips on the wicked fall air.
#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. September 19, 2017