Wednesday, October 9, 2013


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,
making piles
of delight and mess,
and I've had some quiet and
some help-prayer,
and I can bend low to
find what is true again.

Parents mend,
it's what we do--

but only the mended can.


Heath Haussamen said...

Oh my. Brilliant, powerful writing Emily.

Norissa said...

I relate with this, Emily. So much. I'm trying to put this kind of struggle into words, too. Yours are lovely.

Emily said...

Coming from two writers I admire, this means so much. Thanks, friends.

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