She is made of angel wings and puppet strings. Her age sits around her shoulders as a worn shawl shrugged loosely to feel it’s warmth. She’s been abandoned, left cold when her cries became too loud, too insistent and still, still she calls.
She gives sweet melody to spring when children’s laughter rings through the blossoming of youth and sweet harbor.
She shelters in summer in the cool shade of forests, as the little ones make forts and run free through the trees.
She gathers them gently in autumn’s dawning drawing them near as leaves drift and the world lies down to shelter and still, still she calls.
She wraps them in comfort keeping watch at hearth, fires burning to call those lost home in soft winter’s mornings. She touches their heads as they lay resting dreaming of sweet spring returning, and still. Still she calls.
© Tracy Seiden
Featured Writer from “Creative Talents Unleashed Writers Group”
Categories: Featured Writer's