This is National Poem in my Pocket Day. If you want to know about it, go here. If not, here's one of mine:
Spurs and Point Shoes
When she was young she thought
By this age she would be unstoppable
A force to reckon with.
She thought she would be a ballerina,
A successful artist,
A beloved wife and mother.
And all her muscle work and stretching out and bleeding toes
Would pay off.
She thought she would have all the answers.
Her dreams would have gelled into a
Cohesive Plan.
How little she knew.
And yet now she has fewer answers.
And fewer of them are true.
The scales have fallen from her eyes
And disillusionment takes up space in her mind and heart.
And she sees the bedraggled kitchen wench
Where once stood a proud and shining squire.
She sees layers of years and dust
Of dripping sweat and living
Coating the once smooth skin.
Her knees creak and complain,
Back bowed in pain,
Her throat full of nodes,
Battering the once clear voice.
Those layers and layers contain memories,
Some hard won,
Some too easily tossed away--
Dull pennies in a broken well.
Who she wanted to be has fled,
Betrayed her for she who came--
She who gave up and in and settled for less
Than greatness.
She sought the truth, running it to the ground
But what, then, did she do with it?
She stands panting from the chase, a stitch in her side.
But is she who IS,
Necessarily lesser?
She is what she has done, seen, who she
Keeps about her
All the sights and places and experiences
She has tucked away in her
Pandora’s box.
The corners have knocked off, the edges rounded.
Bashed and dented,
She stands with head bowed,
Having sometimes failed and sometimes won.
Wishing she could have been a Knight
But having held the stirrup cup for long, lonely years
Never having seen, done, or been enough.
The ballerina is broken,
Watching from the wings as new dancers
Take her place,
Toe shoes all satiny pink
And unbroken.
New squires come to fight
And win, covering themselves
In fleeting glory.
She stands at the tourney sidelines
And weeps inside.
But maybe what is wanted is not the Knight.
Maybe what was always needed
Is the lowly squire, ever there to help lift and light,
Ever there to bear the cup and steady the horse.
Maybe those scars are the trophies.
Maybe even the serving wench has value
With a truth of her own.
Maybe it's simply too early
To count up the winnings
And she has merely a longer, dustier road
To tramp.
Maybe it's the lamp she holds high
That fills the sky with light for they who come
Afterward.
Maybe someday there will be
Spurs for her,
And a welcome fire and a bowl of broth.
And worth.
©2022 by H. Linn Murphy
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