By Wendy Shywalker

I sit in my secret place.
It's the place I go to hide, my protection
against the world.
I dwell on my pain there. I cry,
rant and scream.
I see my reflection in the lake and
see my mother watching over me.
I hear the wind in the trees and close my
eyes; its her voice I hear.
And as that same wind caresses my face, it's
her touch I feel.
My secret place is my mirrored box,
its images and emotions surrounding me,
eveloping, in a love long gone.
But none of it is real, none has life's breath.
The reflection can be distorted with waves.
The wind can die and the touch disappear.
So I wait at my secret place. I wait for my
mother to come.
I see the slight rustle of the leaves.
She is coming.
So I walk to the lake and kneel down to look in.
She is there, smiling.
At my secret place.