Your eyes pull cinder blocks down
like venetian blinds,
your back straight as steel
up against the wall.
Crimped lips line your mouth,
haven’t shed a smile in quite some time.
I watch you wonder, "Where’s the sense?"

"Be at peace," I want to whisper.
"Never you mind," tottles my tongue.
Such easy words to say,
hardly make it right.

Yet this one creature warms to tell you,
"There is always hope."
Ordinary magic to loosen
that pesky pebble, stone, or rock.
That mighty mountain on your back.
Yes, we wade the world.
Now let us begin.
Joy.

*Buke’s Lighthouse; July 1998 *Feminista!, Vol. 2, Iss. #6; October 1998 *Nail’s Lunch Break E-zine; October 1998

© Getty & Fey.