My first home

Hers was the first heartbeat I heard
A pulse strong and fierce
A blend of Hercules strength and feminine grace
A voice that hummed the lyrics more than it sang
Deep sighs in place of carefree laughter
Walking a path expected, not chosen
Youthful exploration erased
Fast forward the pace, becoming a wife and mother
A story repeated across bloodlines and generations
Born on the cusp of fire and earth
Hers, a lifeforce carrying ancient struggles and fractured worth
Now outside, I sit in stillness
listening, reflecting, looking in
I see her sacrifices
I feel her presence

Good or bad (or the gray that lands between) poets have the luxury (or default) of putting into lines, what sometimes can’t be said aloud. Writing poetry is a way to express; to stir change, to make sense… sometimes it is a safe defense.

Writing poetry can also be a path to healing—revising stories set on repeat and mending fractures that run deep. Within ourselves the healing begins. Giving our poems wings, the rebirth extends. Thank you for stopping by. [image error] Michele

P.S. My beautiful mom, now a great-grandmother, is very much alive, though it’s been a while since she and I have talked. I know… life is too short.

photos of my mom and my selfie (the first is of me and her and the other kiddo is my brother) / featured photo is this morning’s sunrise

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