Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down
And this is motherhood.
I pray for a spring in my step
And get a slinky in my shoe.
They look like twins.
But tell that to the mother
Who just fell head over heels
Over head
Over heels
Down the stairs.
I begged for bread, not stone.
For energy, not exhaustion.
Yet I'm twisted and breaking
Like a blasted slinky.
If I define good gifts differently, so what?
Why is His version the only one that counts?
Maybe He adorns me in these ankle wobblers
So I'm forced to hold His hand
All the time.
Whether on wheel-screeched parking lots
Or hop-scotched sidewalks.
So that I might
Stumble,
But not be hurled headlong?
Yes.
Maybe that's it.
p.s. I didn't really fall on a slinky. Sorry to disappoint. That was just a metaphor or word picture or whatever it's called these days. And that's not really a poem up there. It's just me taking the easy way out so I could post these thoughts without worrying about sentence structure.
p.p.s. Somebody (not me) took that lovely photo:
p.s.(cubed): Okay, maybe it was sort of a poem. It's just that nothing makes me feel more foolish than posting a poem. Except maybe singing a solo or tripping in my high heels, only one of which I've done in the past twenty years. Can you guess which one?
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