Petals bruise and dehydrate, wither in the sun and can bear no weight
Their only purpose to attract a mate to pollinate
But 'tis the stalk that carries the fruit to fruition
That supports the seed and ensures future nutrition
It seems as though you only see the thorns
Not intended to harm, but instead to forewarn
Protecting the life-giving luscious green
Of the chayil of God, an Afrikan Queen.
You listen for the soft sweet sigh of my exhale
A breath barely there, so fragile and frail
But I inhale deeply never knowing when
The tsunamis of life will allow me to breathe again
Pieces of my heart are scattered across the globe,
Unlikely that could happen to a heart of stone
My tears are soft as they dampen my cheeks
Attesting that I am strong, not that I am weak.
Soft is each uncaressed crevice and surface of my skin
That should instead be callous, from your rebuffs and your chagrin
My heart still warm, malleable and intact
Transcending assaults, and malicious attacks.
My lips are gentle on the brow on my child
Trading butterfly kisses, laughter and smiles
Fighting 103 temps 2am by myself
No time to worry about sleep or my own waning health.
My arms are soft enfolding him to my side
I must compensate for the extra weight without disrupting my stride
The bills still need to be paid so I must bring him with me
Yet all of this is softness you don't seem to see.
On second thought I will not apologize for what I am
Smooth and strong as glass from once loose course sand
I'm as I should be, despite you're point of view
My softness perfected in all I've gone though.
Written by Annette M. Parrott
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