Is it offensive, do you think,
when I gush about my family?
When I smile a secret smile,
remembering my mother,
my father?
I know I am lucky, that so few
men and women
my age
were raised faithfully
from the opening of newborn eyes,
the stretching of red, warm, limbs,
into the realization of firm adulthood.
There are few of us who recognize
the weakness
of our parents,
the humanity of the men and women
who conceived us
birthed us
loved us,
few who know that
honor,
and respect,
mean blessing that humanity,
blessing those humans,
once warm and new themselves,
for doing their very best,
for heaving shining swords
at the sharp edge of life
that runs toward us,
their children,
for fighting while bleeding because
they would not see
one they love
broken,
wounded,
maimed.
They are never perfect.
No. So often they are wrong,
so wrong.
Yet, so often they are right
beyond right.
We have not lived
the long and painful years
they have.
How can we argue?
How can we not love the very ground
their youthful feet once walked?
How can we not honor the effort
they made,
to build us and shape us,
bright monuments
to the goodness
that can be found,
that is,
warm and breathing
in the raw imperfection
of the human race?
This poem is a little different, less old fashioned in tone, one might say, than my normal writing, my attempt to be poetic in a modernist manner. That, and a bit of a rant, the words that flow when a blessed person like myself, being away from home, misses her family very much. Hope you enjoyed!
