I didn’t want to raise
an unarmed saint
after seeing my mother
wear that role,
always waiting
for some relief
like an
unsheared sheep,
she walked her muddy
field alone until she
fell from the weight of
her own worsted wool,
unable to feed herself.
I was powerless then but
determined now.
I live to let my daughter
feel the shear within her
palm, to know she holds
the way to go from
worsted to best,
to walk way up,
upon the hill
where the
beloved walk.
Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash
