My empty hand

I show my empty hand
then I play my cards
like the M emblazoned
in the pigment of my palms
I can be no more
no less than what I am
Mother,
Metalsmith,
Mystery,
Me

I show my breaking heart
then march ahead into the fray
like the Matriarch of plants
and children I nurture
I can be no more
no less than what I am
Metalflowermaker,
Meaning well
Making life
Me

I am hurting so I scream to the heavens,
neighbors think an animal has been wounded
tears pouring forth
like the fountain of emotion
I have become
I can be no more
no less than what I am
Maker of things
Mass gatherer of bits and bobs
Mess monger to create art
Missing death because I chose
to seclude My self in protection.

I am grieving
I should no longer speak
rustling, brushing against you
like the broken dying willow
leaves turning brown
saving energy into its roots
to try again next year
I hum,
Mmmmm
Mmmmm
Mmmmm
Mm

(Dedicated to Richard and Chris
who died this year, more grief,
I find out months later
what is there out there that takes
artistic souls- cancer, exposure
to toxicity.  People wonder why I
don’t use chemicals other than
my pharma cological coctail.

My food should at least
have a chance to live its
brief life breathing clean
air and drinking clean water.)

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