Lying in the frozen dirt.
Cut. Bleeding. Dying.
Forgotten tears still stain my shirt
From my mother laying over me, crying.
I can hear her muffled plea for help,
Though her words have muted sound.
I can see her mind, forever searching.
Searching for her baby, unfound.
I can vaguely feel her desperate agony,
Curling her body around her daughter.
She remembers our forgotten simplicity,
Of the forever-fading sound of my laughter.
I smile at her through unshed tears
And whisper my farewell:
"Thank you, mother, for my numbered years
And for the job you've done so well."
J. Cross
P