My mother was a flame
and my father a drop of rain
now a ghost and I was a
gentle open earth dreaming,
a soft wind that blew
planting the seeds
nearly drowned at birth
and still I struggle to rise
from the smoke, desperate
to reclaim them both, building fires
in the storm, waiting to scoop
them up, watching for their ashes
as well to rise, surface
never reaching the shadowy
shores of my overflowing rivers
to soothe my flame licked scars,
or give at least my wounds a name

2/11/2017 ©Debbie Berk