When my weakness surfaces
it's a Monday morning with opaque sky, early blur,
and I don't summon any gladness to
help us see better,
and I don't find it in myself to bend today
into what it should be.
And we all need me to; it's in the job description.
Parents create, it's what we do,
but today I tore down
yesterday's masterpiece; the last
thing in the world I wanted.
It's wonderful and also a problem
that children are new and fresh
and attended by often-tired people
who, unfortunately, grew up.
You pull me young, and I pull you older, but slowly I hope.
Forgive me, my so-little ones,
my cares are far too many
and I pull too hard.
When my strength at last comes forth
the leaves are falling
steady down with rain,
of delight and mess,
and I've had some quiet and
and I can bend low to
find what is true again.
it's what we do--
but only the mended can.