The Well of Grief

She has fallen, yes.
We see her lying there, down deep
at the bottom,
but she struggles not.

“Grab the ropes!” we shout.
“Someone . . . anyone
go down there and bring her up!”

We call to her, we shout
“Hang on . . . help is coming!”
But we listen and we look . . .
she struggles not.

We stop . . . we listen . . . hear an echo
She is singing soft, a lullaby.
We stop . . . we look now deeper.
A shadow . . . of another form
is lying there beside her
and she stokes his soft unknowing hair.

“You are my beloved”
we hear her whisper, but the form lies
still and cold beside her.
“Hang on . . . help is coming!” we shout again
and drop the rope.
“Help is coming!” but she struggles not.

“Move away” a young shining stranger says,
“I am going down.”
And as he makes his long descent
light surrounds him,
glowing embers flutter down upon her face.




“Lift your eyes, Mother. Lift your arms.
Come with me . . . grab the rope..
I will carry you . . . as once you carried me.
Come Mother,
you cannot wake my shadow
for I live in light now. . .
You will not find me here.”

“Mother, I am always with you.
Like the branches of one tree,
you and me.
When you sing . . . I sing.
When you cry . . . I cry.
With your happiness . . . I shine and dance with glee!”

“Mother, set me free.
Let go my shadow and you will hear my voice again
Your heart will see me dance . . .
and you will know that I am
just a breath away.


Joanne Cucinell0 © 2006