My baby girl will be ten years old in less than two weeks. That is both wonderful and hard. That’s what poetry is for, right?
Oh beautiful ache
that stretches with my children’s growing limbs
that curls around the need to hold them close as nursing babes
but sighs with painful joy to see them reaching out for life.
Like a fault-scarred landscape,
I’m braced against the tremor that foreshadows instability.
It matters not who made the scars.
not who is to blame.
It matters only that the shaking could –
whenever that inevitable lurch arrives –
And then, oh then I fear the shaking will not stop until it’s broken all the fragile structures I have built upon the surface,
ways to hide the scars.
And if these decorative lies should crumble into dust,
What is my silent fear beyond the quake?
From that dark chasm deep within what do I fear?
From out the depths, do I believe will come some molten pain that could deform me even more?
Is there life?
A spring of living water that – like Balm of Gilead – will soothe my soul and wash the faults away in blessed baptism of grace?
if such a spring is there
won’t it be worth the shuddering wrench
to set it free?