Outer nerves,

the madness of rise and decline,

undulating like an erratic wave,

the body joined to the illusion,

to past conclusions

and repetitive patterns remolded but unchanged.

Anxiety and intuition smudged

into one dim light.

I bow to the blowing wind, to the ignorance of now.

I hold her hand more now than I did as a child.

Tears rest for a while but lack any regulation.

Slow as a sloth but unpredictable as a storm.

Each day expends

what once was a normal week of energy.

Downward is the secret.

Bend in the direction of whatever gives.

The night is full of apocalyptic dreams,

solar flares and precautions, preparations

to minimize the coming death-blast charring burn.

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Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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Read whole poem:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/

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