She knew what she wanted to say
And she said it.
She wrote it in words for all to see.
But, dull, passing glances
Observe only the obvious.
And few know well how to attune
Soulful, comprehending eyes
Between the lines of what is written.
Written on her face
Was a longing for more—
More understanding and empathy.
More sharing of hearts.
More long hugs to help her feel
Connected.
Even short ones might do.
Written on her frame
Was the peculiar personal pattern
Of weathering
That which all must bear:
Heat. Cold. Storm. Wind.
Urging, ever-urging, change.
Written on her sleeve
Was the pain that had taken its toll
After all those many years
When she was at once convinced
That everyone loved the idea of her,
And yet, no one loved her—really.
Written on her hands
Was the traced evidence of strength
From planting and lifting and building and such.
Unpreserved, weakened, from holding on
To so much that could have been let go,
Should have been let go,
So very long ago,
And Forgiven.
Written in her heart
Was the desire to become
Better than she had been—
A bearer of light and compassion.
Sounding a resonance of past days,
Understanding, finally, the meaning
Of all that had been, and is being,
Written.
- Jacqueline J. Hancock
4 comments:
You are so deep. Thats good.
you must be writing about yourself but still, as i read this, i think of a friend of mine. she is struggling still to be what she wants to be and is not doing well, so the last verse for her is not finished being written. but i think of her when i read this.
My last verse for me is also in the process of being written. That is part of the beauty of a life: it writes . . . always.
Thanks for your thoughtful comment.
I don't read poetry, as a rule but I know that some, like yours, can be thought provoking.
Thanks for your visit (and comment) on my blog. I appreciate it.
Post a Comment