How does it grip you?
Does it tighten your center
like an invisible band,
unrelenting,
unmerciful?

Does it appear at irregular hours,
the master of its own schedule,
a thief of life's sand
when the grains in the glass
are already dwindling?

Does it steal your confidence,
the echoes of encouragement
from those forever dear,
turning the bright light of bravery
to unrecognizable shadows
at all angles of your maternal star?

Trace its roots curled far into your memory,
youth deep,
feeding on time's waters.
See the seed it had once been,
floating on an ill wind,
a feathery umbrella,
so minute and harmless.

Now speak its name,
whatever word you've given it,
pouring a new breeze from your lips
to guide the drifting seed
away from memory's garden.

(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry