The nudging begins; flimsy fluttering
beneath the mass of trivia jostling
for attention.
Perhaps i should..?
What did he mean..?
They’ll be home soon…
I sense the struggling seed within.
Searching deep down
through the shopping list;
the overdraft
and the state of the garden,
I am gripped by a strtength
beyond its size.
Almost crushed by the weight
of what to have for dinner
it struggles, clearing a path;
making space. My appointments
keep their eye on the clock.
At last, I see its shining face
streaked with the blood of conflict.
Oblivious to the huddle of tasks
behind the kitchen door
I wipe it clean, lovingly
making it presentable.
A gentle push and the poem
lies naked, vulnerable,
alone.
Marion Sharville ©
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