Toil, soil, & tattered clay,
orever, for never & mendable today.
When our fathers don’t make us feel like daughters,
& when our mornings feel like night.
When our homes feel like prison,
& when our prisons have become home.
I want to build a home,
Of doors & walls & closets with winter coats,
Of icy toes on cold Tuesday morning hardwood,
Of slow coffee sips in sync with the breeze blowing in.
Is it all just spinning,
Twirls & curtsies,
To all these hidden rules I never wanted to follow.
It’s not yet time,
But I can feel your promise in the gravities of me,
Like the winter wind down the hill,
I can hear your life whistling,
On its way.
I don’t want to wait to love you,
I don’t know if I can.
