by MFrost Delaney

I met my mother on a plain between
the Serengeti and Denaliís peak.
The northern grasslandís spread was such a scene
below the ice, that I could hardly speak.

To meet her there alive—a blunt surprise,
as she had passed from life to exitís den.
Yet there she was. Or did this place tell lies?
Oh no, it was as true as we had been:

We mixed just like fresh water and stale oil,
like enemies without the hope of peace …

Unhappiness that ruled her spilled to us.
And yes, itís true, her yelling wasnít fair,
her lack of hugs, her silent brooding fuss
when Daddy would explode.
                                                          But somehow, there …

I saw her life as she did, with its toil
to cope as her depression wouldnít cease.

And then, the icy peak began to melt.
The grass below stirred up against a breeze
that gently brushed her face. She finally felt
a warmth that cracked her long-held inner freeze.

The plain became our private DMZ
where we found peace as she reached out for me.

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