Mother Dear, I Fear That I Am Dying Poem by Iris Balgaire

Forget those dying birds,
broken winged mistress of mine.
Death has become an angry storm
but, daughter dear,
we stand fossilized
God can't touch us here,
But he stands at watch
God has no eyes.
He is caught in the webs
Of a caved in basement
Of an old farm house, long abandoned
Surrounded by an orchard
Obscured at its edges.
We are not safe there.
But the house remains,
Singing a melody of breaking bones,
Pushed, pulled by erratic winds,
Smothered by forget-me-nots
and red poppy loves-
Orphans left behind by a mother.
The storm has died down now.
Daughter dear,
the birds are flying back.