She bore her daughter in the shadow of the moon,
a wisp of dawn clinging to her ribcage,
a fragment torn from the firmament’s jealous silk.
And as the sun knelt to crown the earth,
the first cry rang—a hymn, a rebellion,
a spark that whispered:
“We will be both battle and balm.”
Her hands, trembling temples of creation,
pressed against the flesh she gave,
only to watch it unfurl like a flag
that would one day fly beyond her kingdom.
Yet, even in the triumph of life,
there brewed the quiet alchemy of resentment—
a seed planted deep,
its roots twisting in the marrow of both love and loss.
Daughter,
you are the poem I could never finish,
a stanza that fights its rhyme,
a flame that consumes the paper I offer.
I gave you my fire,
and now you scorch the world in ways
I never dared.
Mother,
you are the storm I both flee and follow,
a tide that pulls at the wreckage of my youth.
Your love—
a blade, double-edged,
cuts a path through my doubt
and pierces my freedom with longing.
We are the earth and the rain,
forever locked in a duel of nourishment and flood.
When you scold, I feel the forest tremble;
when you cry, I am the stream that swells
until my banks split with guilt.
You are the shore that pushes me to sea,
and I, the wave that yearns to kiss your feet
even as I retreat into the horizon.
Oh, how the world watches us,
this eternal echo of its own cruelty.
It drapes its jealous light across our bond,
pressing us into molds that don’t fit.
It steals the softness of our hands
to sharpen its edges,
it binds us in the lies of what love should be.
We are taught to turn our faces from the mirror,
afraid to see that the lines
between mother and daughter blur like dusk and dawn.
But still, we rise in the rhythm of the seasons—
quarreling spring,
sweltering summer,
the brittle ache of autumn,
the silent forgiveness of winter.
We are the infinite wheel,
grinding the past into powder
to fertilize a future
that we cannot name.
Daughter,
when I see you burn the sky,
I envy the stars that will catch your ash,
but I would still cast my shadow over you
to save you from the sun.
Mother,
when I hear the weariness in your breath,
I ache for the years I stole from you,
but I will always carry your name in my bones,
whispering it like a prayer to the life you gave me.
And so, the river flows,
its tears carving valleys deeper than time.
We drown, and we bloom,
and still, we dance—
the world watching,
jealous,
awed,
and forever unworthy
of our love.
