my mother, my self. or why i blog

i see her sometimes.

as i write.
laying my thoughts on spaces
that she does not occupy.
or made comfortable in.
or invited in.

i see her sometimes

peering through the spaces
staring as i do.
wishing to embrace
i
her child
her fruit of intoxicating coming together.
the love child.
wandering away.
far from the nest.
lost.
bewildered.
haunted
by spaces of love.

i see her sometimes.

in the faces.
limbs.
body movements
smiles of dadas
that i hold dear.
in the touch
of the ones
that caresses
the deep confines of my soul.
as i soar in limitless abandonment.

i see her sometimes

as i lay prostrate
in deadness
of winter.
cold.
numbness
made intimate with tentacles of killing joy.

i see her sometimes

many times.
in dreams
coloured with the birthing
of coming together.
of life made home.
enacted
in the ancient dance of life-death-life.
and i.
her child
made whole by her touch.
her love.
distanced by spaces of unfamiliarity.

i am my mothers daughter.
loving in unadulterated ways.