Frustration

I never write poetry. But I am feeling a little sorrowful tonight, and rather than carry on, I wrote this:


Belonging to you is like drowning.
Tumbling
over
and
over again
in the waves--
Gasping for the air of your approval
the sunshine of your love
and tasting mostly brine.
In your own way, you try to save me
Though all of your affections are weighted
by conditions and excuses.
Struggling toward the shore,
I imagine a life without you
But I am sucked down by pity
and the hope that someday
we will have nothing between us
except tenderness.
For now, I scrape my chin
against the coarse sand
and wince from the burn in my eyes
while you watch from your perch
in your ignorance
and smile.

Quittin' Time

It is 11:00. The dishes are done. The clothes are folded. The children are bathed and have been sleeping soundly for a couple of hours. As I sit and write, all the stress of the day drips down my back and puddles on the floor.

It's odd, really, how I put on stress like a garment every morning. Mine is a bulky sweater with LOTS of pockets to make room for more. But at the end of each day, I drink hot chocolate or read or write. I watch my children sleep, and I am light again.

Lord, I have not finished the puzzle of what life looks like when I am loved by you. I am sure, though, that this moment is part of that picture, and I am grateful.