The Dead Years
By Mona Wanlass
I was awakened as a child
by the words of my great-grandmother
(who died before I was born)
read from yellowed paper
in a voice that spoke to my soul.
So I wrote
and found my voice.
Words that kept me alive
inside as the insanity
around me grew louder.
Cathartic scribblings
birthed one after the other
rejuvenating my spirit.
I gave my children
the dead years.
I had no time
to put pen to paper,
I mothered instead.
Never noticing
the green of my leaves
turn to yellow
or when my blooms
dried and fell to dust.
I just remember
looking at a barren tree
outside my window -
branches outstretched
awaiting Spring's warmth and new growth -
realizing
sixteen years of winter
is long enough.
Copyright 2001
