mother

My mother’s voice, both sharp and kind, Is tangled deep inside my mind. She tries so hard to build me whole, While fighting battles of her soul. She’s not the villain in my rage, Just trapped within the parent cage. But still she stands, though tired and worn, The storm that shields me from the storm. I push her back, then pull her near, She gives me space, then dries a tear. She loves in ways I fail to see— Until the fog clears inside me. --- So if I break, I’ll build again. I’ll write my ache with borrowed pen. And when I fall, I’ll find the grace To rise, and face what I must face. Someday, I’ll turn and softly smile, At who I was across the miles.