Tribulat

Journey of a Matriarch

The old moon
she became invisible during the day
the brutal sun, always pushing her back
she made her way in two seasons
between two forks of the road in the desert
days of cold winds
of hot sandstorm gusts
and her children were rocks
stone dumb, unmoved by the north wind
A life of toil and famine ensued
the windswept plains
her personal prison
not much grew there
dirt…
dirt found in pores and clothes
clinging onto furniture
manifesting to where
even the air was clay-colored
Across the desert, she walked
her feet warped
her celestial place
long vacant
And as she called to her four stones
the uncaring siblings
self-centered brats
they would not toil against the wind
even as it flung snow and starvation
in their mother’s face
her gnarled hands gripping her worn bag
her small blue pocketbook agape
to the cruel air
tiny trinkets scattering in the angry storm
These minute treasures picked up
by the desert grasses
and the desert plants slid the trinkets
onto their slender stalks
so green in the contrast to dust
a spot in the desert
that was unlike the woman
who gazed into the western sky
Someday, long after the scribes have written
plastic words in the sand
she will bolt, skyward bound
once again to cast glimmer
into the night