orion walked over valleys
where my words echo
and my poetry flow
while I sat contemplating
he read aloud from verse
and prose.
and then he whispered
"write about our mother"
i looked up, astonished.
"mother"?
what could I write of her?
that she is beautiful and cruel?
or that she is ugly and kind?
what could I write of her
who gave me dreams
to paint in words?
what could I write of her
who took away those I held dear
and yet gave me love?
i could praise her as poets have
i could disgrace her
and be called demented
could I rave and rant?
complain?
hurt so much and yet be?
i would crave for her
but would she come?
cannot I say
that I loved her
in all her disgrace
in all her splendor
But Nature is me.
