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Mother of One

Tim Cantor, 2019

As nurture takes a turn, the trees they cast more shade

The seeds they grow through gravel, rapt children raise away

Memories of pulled flowers, memories breed as prey

It's hotter, it's harder

In the early days of May

Time is our own torture, feared thoughts of one lifespan

Youth is long and lasting, yet short and sweet and damned

Time speeds through what follows, and seeks its days unplanned

This is why it wills

With such a wicked hand

Low skies, rose skin, clouds bitter white with wind

Bewildered by the sorrows; these black shapes, stealing from within

Like objects, we hold them, as ink inside this pen

They pose the past as been

As greed to start again

The thieves of May are sly, drifting towards the lonely

The heart draws weak the chin; wounded, longing, slowly

Pain lightly draped in need, bandaged by the ghostly

Strangers, unknowing

Phantoms gaining closely

The falseness of this dressing is a cure that's unaligned

Cries written, bold fiction, torn papers left unsigned

Shattered by compassion, just one thought rings defined

Let go, let go, let go

And leave the past behind

These trees are not so high, the roots have not yet dried

Children move through time, but never leave our side

Write our names as scripted, as love that stings inside

Set free the thieves of May

As love that never died

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