Your Wings

image courtesy of wallpaperabyss.com

Dreams
	fulfilled and abandoned,
	the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy--

Tears
	fallen,
	dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind,
and those never allowed to fall--
	

The skins of selves I used to be
	the wounded and scarred
	the shrunken down inside her skin
	the sacrificial to survival--



Take these things
I freely give,
adding all 
my wishes
my dreams
my hopes
for you.
Next,
Add all you want,
all you dream,
all you desire,
wish for and hope for
in your life 

Then weave of them a chrysalis 
bout yourself to cushion and protect
as you grow into your own skin.

Leave your chains of fear, 
your yoke of worries
with me.
I will bury them
deep inside my chest.

When you emerge,
your wings wet and beautiful,
you may perch upon
the branch of pride
growing from my soul
to flex and flutter your wings
until dry enough to fly,
beautiful as you have always been,
never to shrink
or curl away 
your wings again.



Words for You

image courtesy opmat.org.au

VJ’s Weekly Challenge #96: circling

 

Circle through the years of youth

Find the gems along the streams

Of your years, my love.

Collect them in a basket,

Keep them close.

When the time comes

Give each away to your

Young ones.

Make each a gift,

Tied with ribbons

Of what you dream

And all of your

Wishes

For them.

As I have given

All my words

As a gift

Tied with ribbons

Of my dream

Of love

And my wish

Of happiness

For you,

My love,

My gift,

My daughter.

The Blanket

Image courtesy of Elftown.com

Written in response to Sammiscribble.Wordpress.com Weekend Writing Prompt #154- Use the word “Fabric” and no more than 131 words

A tiny explosion within the diagnosis:

Stage 3C ovarian cancer,

Blasts a hole in our family fabric.

Threads of surgeries and chemo

Stitch it shut.

A hard-knotted mess left.

We live without holes a few months.

 

New scans, blood tests.

Cancer slices a nice size gash,

fraying at the edges.

More chemo knits shut our fabric, 

No longer perfect with knots, scarred seams,

But whole.

 

Six months,

A rending– bowel resection,

Rips– chemo for a bit,

You stopped, couldn’t do anymore.

The rips, the tears—too many

Too many damaged places to repair.

We learn to live with holes, rips

Fraying tears, worn places—

Until you are no longer there,

Until there is no us—but the child and me,

And no blanket left to cover

What was left of us.