Precious Childhood
(after the sculpture “Severn” by Francesca
Davies)
There’s
something in the shadow
cast over
her eyes and the light
captured
by her forehead—
the
singularity of her nose and
lips, and
her sure chin accented
by her
angular cheeks.
She is a
child born into the world
with
strength and poise.
Her smile
is not eager and her
faith is
hard-won. Her youth
belies
her wisdom; she is a
resilient
young woman.
There’s
something so precious
about
childhood. The mind yet
to know;
the eyes, yet to see;
the
promise so clear, but
unsettled—like
fertile soil in
spring.
Severn,
like a river running through,
runs
through their lives like a
welcome
torrent, lifting and changing
the
landscape as it flows forth.
She, like
a thunderstorm, stirring through
the
night, making white rapids of
the gone
stream, momentarily disrupts
the depth
of her family’s feelings for her.
That
family, who peppers her life with
hope and
love, is uplifted to see
their
reflection in her eyes—
in her
open, opaque eyes.
Reaching,
stretching; growing,
conquering;
hoping, dreaming;
running,
remaking; tearing lives
apart to
make new things of
their own
forgotten dreams.
An Ode to Mothers
What would they do without her:
her warm, whole-body hugs,
her compassion, her knowledge.
She is as good as they would
hope she would be.
An ode to mothers:
who love despite their broken
hearts; who can see hope through
tears; who have the strength and
stamina to go the distance;
who possess the insight and vision
to see a way forward.
The great protectors of dreams
and broken things. The fixers;
the lovers; the sowers; the menders;
the leaders; the supplicants; the victors.
May their journey be one of love
in the face of heartbreak; dreams
in the emptiest of hollows; freedom
in the wake of all that binds them.
Pray for vision in the darkest
of caves.
