When the Journey BeganA Poem by C. Harter AmosThe rut is so comfortable I forget that I’m in one… Until the mud and clay suck at my feet and pull me down. I gasp for breath and wonder why as the walls of the rut tumble down around me.
Claws spring from the delicate hands of daughters. Even if I can’t forget the sweet children are now grown, my heart is open to them like a mother’s arms stay out of habit, and history, and old bonds they broke, not I.
Memories of their innocent doe-like eyes keep me off balance, keening with the effort of owning empty arms with the need to rock and sing lullabies to soothe aches that no longer need my care. I’ve helped to make them strong Encouraged them to let me go. So why am I surprised they do? Oh mother dear, see here, see here We really don’t need you near.
Empty nest syndrome is simply so passé.
I realize I’m in the rut again, But I can’t seem to stop the blood That pours from my soul From the wounds I don’t dare speak of. (They don’t show do they? Like the hem of a red lace slip from under your Sunday best…)
Mustn’t whine, mustn’t cry Mustn’t make them ask me why
Mother: a temporary state of being that had all the earmarks of permanence When the journey began.
© 2007 C. Harter Amos© 2008 C. Harter AmosFeatured Review
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16 Reviews Added on February 7, 2008 AuthorC. Harter AmosLexington, SCAboutBorn in the swamps of the South Carolina Low Country. Brought up on the Classics with a great deal of emphasis on music. I spent about six years at the University of South Carolina in Columbia soakin.. more..Writing
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