A Cross to Bear
The river will always remind me of my mother,
Turbulent, constantly surging,
Carrying all the debris from her life
Along her banks, always moving along,
Never stopping, always flowing,
Shifting to swallow all in her path.
Rushing, meandering, curvy, beautiful,
She sweeps the rocks along the bed,
Rolls pebbles between the lengths of her palms.
She will always remind me of the things within,
Of the rocks falling inside my chest.
She is part of my avalanche.