The weather cracked her face and left a scar.
It happened while she was sitting under a Linden tree.
She remains sitting under a Linden tree.
No one heard the scream, if there was one.
There were no curses or accusations.
In her tranquil spot she knows the night when it is cold
and dark. There is a dampness that covers her gravel garments.
The wind and sun dry her out.
The clouds cover the sun and reveal a storm.
She breathes patience and kindness as freezing
rain ice her head.
She remains sitting under a Linden tree.
The weather broke her shoulder and left a cleft.
Something flew at her and struck her.
It happened despite the artifact on her crown.
She remains sitting under a Linden tree.
Her hands hold no grudge against the snow and ice.
Freely she offers her wounded face, straight she
keeps her shoulders.
We see her there. Her legs and feet long gone. Chunks,
front and back are missing. She leans against the tree,
her torso now sinks into the dirt.
She remains sitting under a Linden tree.
Her stony, broken figure narrates the courage of
our unarmed mother. Through thick and thin she remains,
amidst the vagaries of weather, sitting under the Linden tree.
