And the voice which I heard from heaven spake unto me again,
and said, Go and take the little book
which is open
in the hand of the angel which standeth upon the sea and upon the earth.

In these revelatory times I cling to my mothers skirts,
tied to immaturity with tight tendrils of fear.
The wind whips around us on the hilltop and I see
tall thunderheads, green and grey, their billows and beards
threatening to waste all that we have built.
They menace on the horizon and I drag her hand
down after me, please come, please hurry,
the sharpness of my anxiety digging into her ribs and mine.
I drag her too quickly; she stumbles, small shoes
on a steep climb, and before I can latch on she's gone.
She does not even make a sound. In the true
selfish nature of childhood I do not look back,
but keep scurrying down the gravel path.
I will reach the safety; she will not.
The rains the storm will bring might find her,
limbs at odd angles, pale skin, little blood,
and push her helpless corpse down the river
till it beaches at my doorstep.
I will not grieve until it does, as I demand
this proof before accepting a fate so dumb.