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…