The Oncological Storm

My Mama is sick. 

I?

I am a weeping willow

My banshee wails salty-pasting my willow hair to my face

I am thrashing in the horizontal wind

I am, willow-haired, weeping salty water sobs

I am flailing branches,

“No! No! No!”

After the storm, I melancholy sway with shoulder branches slumped

I whimper on the hillside, willow-hair blowing in the grief wind

I, drooping, want to lie down and die

I sigh and tremble on the hillside, alone

I, for someone else, muster a ballerina-like stance, entwining beauty with sorrow

I sway my lonely branches to somber wind-music-breeze

I, weeping, waft whispered laments in the wind,

“Oh, my darlin, my heart breaks as you take your long journey”

She?

She is the riveting ruby-radiance of the red maple in autumn

She is wonderment-inducing; stunning

Her head-tossed-back-laughter reverberates mightily with the thunder

She is dosey doing with the wind

She, whirling, outstretches her arm-branches -- far-reaching glory

She extends her dazzling fingertip branches to Heaven

She is fire-red-hearted for the Lord, exactly as she is called to be

She, soul-leaves rustling, whistles perfect harmony with the wind:

“My Savior God…How Great Thou Art”