Poems On Poetry.

"Distraction"

It's taking me forever
to finish reading this poetry book
because I keep getting distracted
by phrases that creep in,
lines that would start
such clever, thoughtful poems
of my own.


"Domino Effect"

I suppose the goal of my life
-- or one of them anyway --
is to publish a book
of poetry.

I certainly have enough poems by now,
piled up like domino stacks,
quietly waiting to set up a chapbook
or a thin, glossy paperback

which readers could easily carry around
in their purses or backpacks,
pulling it out in a dull moment
in a coffee shop or at home while the baby naps,

or on the bus or waiting at the doctor's office,
to play with for fun, and inspiration perhaps.

I suppose it is the goal of my life
to express creative sentiments to others,
written words whispered into the mind,
sparking a flame that in turn lights another,

a domino effect of delightful enlightenment.

--Ellen H.

Icicles-- a poem.

Such pointless, delightful decorations,

these multi-colored glass icicles

hanging in the front window.

I study them – aglow

with the cold morning sun,
each a variation on a color theme,

purposefully hung at varying lengths –
perfect imperfection –

as real icicles are.

I admire them – as I sit

for the hundredth hour

on my living room couch, breastfeeding:

a rare, glowing positive to being up so early,

never again to sleep in.

I also hung them so passers-by

on our busy, in-town street

would see them too.

Perhaps, decorative winter baubles

make up for the lack of seeing a homey tree
through our front window, as if to say
'We still care about the holidays,'

but saving me the work

of molted pine needles on the carpet,

and wanting it gone on exactly December 26^th.

Besides, these could last us until February for sure –

icicles are in season all winter long,

even if they were originally intended as holiday ornaments...
Maybe they're not so pointless after all?

--Ellen H. 

"International Evening": a poem.

It's a big, big world out there,
I think to myself, and stare,
as I sit in my living room at dusk,
watching a car drive by in a rush
with the radio blaring--
a sign that the schoolkids are out,
out and about, somewhere to go,
and that night magic is inviting,
so exciting, soon to flow.
Meanwhile,
by lamplight I am reading a poetry book,
pausing at times to take a look
at the outdoor activity and approaching evening,
feeling the weight of my baby, on my lap finally sleeping.

Who else is looking out their window,
like, in Rio De Janeiro,
listening to the cars zoom,
and seeing the city lights bloom,
as the sun goes down?
How many other mothers are doing
what I am doing, at just the same time--
a boring, lonely, immobile thing--
bringing camaraderie, secret and sublime?
But only if
their imaginations are also pondering
the same thing as our minds are wandering...
Who really knows, or even cares?
All I know is: it's a big, big world out there.


--Ellen H.

P.S. If you like accessible, contemporary poems, check out one of Billy Collins' collections (former U.S. Poet Laureate): they always inspire some smiles and poetry of my own. :)

An Ode To The Socks with Chicks on Them.

Ode

To the socks that fit my daughters feet

and stay on:

Thank you.

You are white, matching everything,

yet cute, delighting me with baby chicks;

Thick, making up for no shoes,

and snug, without leaving marks on her skin.

In a dull world of no stirrup pants for infants--

where the fashion fad would have had staying power

due to being truly useful--

at least you socks commit to keep feet warm

and toes clean

and moms sane

since I don’t have to endlessly look for a missing twin

escaped from the job

of warding off chilly Autumn.

Wryly writing on,

Ellen H.

Daily Manna.

When I lived in Spain for a semester in college, my house mother would leave most mornings to buy a fresh loaf of crusty bread for the day. Loaves like that get stale quickly, so you want to use them up in a day or two. It was a sweet daily ritual, this elderly lady going down the street to the local market with her rolling grocery basket and picking up the food she needed to cook with for the day. I, on the other hand, as a boring, non-health-food-conscious American, buy two loaves of preservative-laden bread at a time from the grocery store, usually freezing one to have on hand after the first is used up in a week.

So when I'm reading the prayer that Jesus models for his disciples and I get to the part about "Give us this day our daily bread" (Matthew 6:11), the idea isn't so relevant. I've got the money to pay for more than one day's bread at a time, plus it's more convenient for me to buy bread that stays soft for a whole week. I don't have to ask God to provide food each day... and I am thankful for this. I consider it a blessing from God that our family has enough for today and tomorrow and next week-- not just for food, but gasoline and clothes and if something unexpected comes up. Jesus isn't just talking about literal bread, after all. But there is a downside to a stocked up pantry, freezer and bank account (though I am far from rich, my friend): I don't have to rely on God to meet my daily needs. Or rather, I don't think I do. 

Motherhood has shed a whole new light on this concept. I like to be good at stuff, to be independent. Suddenly, however, there's something I'm not good at. I don't have a "stock" of skills to make up for it, either. Six weeks ago, I knew nothing about getting a baby to fall back asleep, setting up a bedtime routine, watching for a fever... Nor was I prepared for the struggle of being home alone when you can't leave, nor how to have an outlet when I physically couldn't exercise yet. Suddenly, parenthood has made me very aware of how needy I am every day, and it's humbling.

The biblical concept of relying on God for each day's needs didn't begin with Jesus teaching the Lord's Prayer, of course. In the Old Testament, Moses leads the nation of Israel through the desert. There's not much food in the desert, you know. So the Lord provides for them, but with a lesson attached: "Then the Lord said to Moses, 'Behold, I am about to rain bread from heaven for you, and the people shall go out and gather a day's portion every day, that I may test them, whether they will walk in my law or not.'" (Exodus 16:4)

Watch what the people do: (v 19-21) "And Moses said to them, 'Let no one leave any of it over till the morning.' But they did not listen to Moses. Some left part of it till the morning, and it bred worms and stank. And Moses was angry with them. Morning by morning they gathered it, each as much as he could eat; but when the sun grew hot, it melted."

An interesting lesson, isn't it? God provides food for his people, but not multiple loaves of preservative-laden bread. This is a new kind of bread (they called it "manna") with a quick expiration date. God wants to keep the Israelite's focus and dependence squarely on Himself. That meant every day they would have to wake up and expect God to meet their needs, and then not gather any extra for the following day: each day would provide enough.

This isn't a lesson about buying fresh crusty bread instead of Sara Lee (though some of my health-conscious friends might beg to differ). Nor is it a lesson about not needing savings in the bank. It is a lesson about looking to God for what we need today, and then trusting Him to be there again tomorrow, and then yet again the next day, so that we never leave the place of needing God, and knowing we need Him.

"Jesus, give us this day our daily bread."

So I have begun to simplify my prayers. Certainly God loves Dreaming Big prayers and Kingdom Come prayers and Miraculous Healing prayers. I still want the faith to pray those kinds too. But while no request is too big, so motherhood has reminded me that no request is too small or too simple, either:

"Jesus, please help my daughter fall back asleep so she will wake up truly rested."
"Help us get through the grocery store without a meltdown."
"Arrange this day so I can enjoy the sunshine outside once."

These are real prayers I have whispered in the last few weeks. My needs and my baby's needs are basic. No hour-long intercession needed here. I may pray the exact prayer again tomorrow. But these allow me to watch how God meets me in those needs. Daily. It's good for my faith.

Sometimes, big, vague prayers require less faith because rarely do I look back at "Be with us this week" or "Grant smooth travel for everyone this weekend" to see how He answered. My "small" requests are good practice for other "small" needs in my life: first to identify them as worth praying about--because we are "worth more than many sparrows"--and then to remember to actually pray them. Not just worry them. I like how The Message translation puts it: "Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers."

Let me be clear: this is not the whole of all my prayers. I do not envision God as a Heavenly Vending Machine for my personal needs. I do not ignore the important work of praising and thanking Him. Nor have I laid aside prayers for the needs of others and the bigger picture. Like I said, I still want to be praying in other ways too. Right now I see in a deeper way that I need Him for the most basic things in my life, things that I thought I could get or do on my own. What I really need, and what we all need, in the end, is God Himself, far more than what He merely gives or does. And I keep needing Him. Every day. Very present and practical prayers keep me aware of this. The Father loves when my focus is squarely fixed on Him. We see this throughout the Bible. We weren't made to do this life alone, friend, but to look for Him to be enough for us, morning after morning, as we gather our sweet sustenance for another day.

I need Thee, oh I need Thee
Every hour I need Thee
Oh bless me now my Savior
I come to Thee!

Thoughtfully writing on,
Ellen H.

(Hymn: "I Need Thee Every Hour" by Annie Hawks)

Other Thoughts from Motherhood.

Continuing in the theme of my experiences in new motherhood, here is a collection of shorter thoughts I've been collecting in the first six weeks of my baby's life:

The pattern on my borrowed breastfeeding cover.

- When I turn this breastfeeding cover around, it becomes a cape. 
Backstory: My husband and I have a housemate so I often wear a privacy cover at home while breastfeeding. When I briefly stand up from the couch to get something, I might flip the cover around so it falls behind my back rather than taking it off for a moment. The thought that it's a motherhood cape makes me feel magical and cheers me up.

- I'm really coming to love mornings.
I never hated them, but now they are especially precious and ever so needed. I am finding particular truth in the verse, "Sorrow may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5) Everything seems possible in the morning, light finally in the sky, especially with a cup of coffee. I was never a regular coffee drinker nor needed caffeine daily until this baby. But now, plus a little sleep (not enough, but some), I am ready to do Today. "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." (Lamentations 3:22-23)

- When someone's baby is inconsolable, you hand them back to mom.  I am now that person.
This thought, that I am the ultimate solution, is overwhelming at times. Especially now, in perhaps her fussiest stage: the dreaded six-week mark. I feel so ill-equipped to be the final hand-off person, the end of the line. To my husband, breastfeeding seems like the magic key to baby's happiness. But when she doesn't want that, I'm not so special anymore. Of course, she's still biologically bonded with me: my scent, my voice, my face, my touch. Yet in her red-in-the-face rage, even those hold little power. Still, there is no other mother. This is an awesomely heavy realization.

- I find that when I am in a room with tall ceilings, my thoughts are more expansive and my mood more positive.
Someone should do a study on this, if they haven't already, to find out if people truly are more creative or more optimistic in taller rooms. Of course, simply changing location is good. Since my baby was born, I'm in my house a lot, and I haven't returned to work yet. But I do believe I am particularly more creative when I'm in rooms with higher-than-average ceilings. I need to remember this when I'm having writer's block or particularly struggling with the adjustment to parenthood.

Anyway, just some thoughts to share.
I remain thoughtfully yours,
Ellen H.

I Am Jealous of Your Dreams.

[Intended to be a spoken word poem.]


Tired. So very tired.

You smile: sometimes wryly, sometimes goofy and lopsided, other times open mouthed in sheer delight. All wonderful ways for a cute baby to smile, and each lights up your face.

But you are asleep. Eyes may even be partly open, but it's a trick: it's a REM cycle. They are not for me. Not today, not yet. So I am jealous of your dreams, baby.

I look forward to the day those smiles are meant for me, but wish I were to get even one alert smile today. Today, when I am so exhausted from weeks of little sleep, the five weeks of your little life, and each week bringing increasing fussiness. When you do nap for 10 minutes at my breast today, these sleep smiles come out to play, and I nearly drool. I'm so jealous, so hungry for just one to be intended for me!

Maybe you're even dreaming of me and my milk; what other experiences do you have? But still, I feel ignored by you in real life, tested and fought with, and you still only a babe! I know that soon this too shall pass, as everyone is so quick to tell me, as you quickly approach an age of regular waking smiles (and then--swoon!--giggles). But hope for the future is weak in this moment of crushing exhaustion and emotional loneliness.

So I am jealous of your dreams, my daughter... I can only hope to have some of my own tonight.

--Ellen H.

Humble Christ. Humble Mother.

"Did you know, that your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little Baby, you kissed the face of God?"

Christmas still months away, I sit at my computer, breastfeeding my one-month-old, listening to "Mary Did You Know." Maybe it's just the postpartum hormones, but I tear up sentimentally. In this moment I am struck with how very humble Christ was, to come as a baby first. He didn't just show up on the scene 30-ish years old, ready to start his ministry and then die at the end. He went through the whole growing up thing. How vulnerable he was, a helpless newborn! He relied on a human mother to keep Him alive at first (with God's protective help, though). This thought is a lot more real with my own baby in my arms.

The realization sure puts my pride in perspective. How ridiculously out of place it is, when God was okay with putting His Son completely at the mercy of a young woman. I'm sure Mary felt some of that weight of awe and responsibility, as this song so famously wonders. I feel the weight with my own tender child, and she's certainly not divine.

Being a new mom makes you humble too. In the first weeks of my daughter's life, I found myself getting butterflies in my stomach each time a friend told me they were coming over to visit. I had invited them of course, and I was excited to introduce our precious little one. But I got nervous… Why? When I realized this was a pattern, I explained it to my husband. Part of his theory was that our house wasn't as clean as it normally would be when accepting guests. Perhaps I felt a little embarrassed for my friends to see a messier version of myself than I normally would present to them.

Funny, huh? Pride has to go out the window when you have a newborn. Just weeks prior I would have had those dishes done in no time split--it was a smooth pregnancy--and felt a whole ton better for having a clean kitchen. Can you tell I'm an achiever? But even if baby were napping, I couldn't stand that long: I was too sore from childbirth. I could barely stand the few minutes to greet my guests because of the discomfort. Humbling, to be sure.

It's okay though. It's a good exercise for me, to show the new cracks in my prideful armor of image. Let the sink get a little fuller. Admit my physical weakness. This way I'm learning to care a little less about minor things, and remember that this child is my first priority now. Yes, that means even items two and three on my to-do list might not get done, let alone the whole thing. Yes, that meant staying on the couch so I could heal, instead of getting my guests a glass of water. Instead, I remind myself each day of my new motherhood that I've accomplished my main objective: Keep Child Alive. Check.

Some of my friends are amazed that I wanted guests at all in these first few weeks. I totally don't judge the tired, sore, or introverted mothers who don't want them. But I did. I was so proud of this beautiful little being that grew inside me, and I truly wanted my extended family and closest friends to meet her. I also wanted the emotional encouragement, along with the gifted dinners, so I'm thankful God gave me the wisdom to ignore my pride and let people in. If Jesus could humbly let Himself be raised by lowly Mary, so could I let others into my home and see my vulnerability. In doing so, I found that I gained greatly.

Thoughfully writing on,
Ellen H.

P.S. I'm partial to Clay Aiken's version of this song. Okay, Pentatonix's is also pretty great.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiL993FK0y4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifCWN5pJGIE

The Swing. Or, Guilt versus Grace.

[So begins a series of blogs on my experiences of new motherhood, many first drafts dictated onto my phone, since I spend hours breastfeeding, hands full but mind pretty free to wander. Now I'm going back and editing them, in an attempt to write more, post more, and to feel good by accomplishing something I personally enjoy. The following was originally written a couple weeks ago.]

It's staring at me.
Taunting me.
Daring me to decide what I'll do.

...The swing, that is. It's a great lesson in mommy guilt. If I put my newborn daughter into our electric baby swing and she sleeps for two hours, blithely swinging away, is that somehow "cheating" or ignoring her? Then again, if I hold her in my arms for two hours, am I making it harder for myself later, so she'll never want to be put down? If this sounds silly, you're not a new mother and you definitely don't have a swing in your nursery, winning a solemn staring contest. Guilt is a very powerful thing, you know. A serious force to be reckoned with.

I am no stranger to such slippery, tricky guilt; I used to be a hardcore perfectionist. However, in the more recent years of my adult life, I have learned to recognize this, and these days I more specifically describe myself as a "recovering perfectionist." But I have this child of my own now, and it brings a whole new challenge to that department. I want to do everything in my power to make sure that in the Nature versus Nurture balance of a person, the Nurture aspect of child rearing is done just right. Typical of many new moms, not just the previously-Type-A ones. Of course, perfect mothering isn't possible. Still, my heart doesn't really realize that yet, especially when my newborn is so helpless. I somehow think if I do enough on her behalf, educate myself enough, sleep-train her well enough, fill-in-the-blank enough, she'll get the absolute best chance at being a smart and well-behaved child. An admirable goal, but not realistic. I know, I know...

The swing continue to stare at me. It's so innocuous looking, with its cream colors and soft, puppy-head pillow. When I've (finally!) done dishes, plus eaten something, and then discover she has slept through it all, I am grateful... but then the swing seems to taunt me, "She needs more daytime stimulation or she won't sleep enough tonight!" Or, I cuddle her in my arms while she sleeps, only to hear it whisper, "You could have used me to complete at least one measly chore today. Your husband shouldn't do all the chores when he just wants to hold his daughter after work..." And the back and forth struggle continues. I see how silly and tiring this is, yet it's real. (Well, not actually hearing the swing talk to me, but you get my point!)

Thankfully, there's grace.
So much grace.

That's the thing with perfectionists: we forget all about grace. As a Christian, I believe that my salvation is through grace, not by what I do. Ephesians 2:8-9 says, "For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith... not by works, so that no one can boast." What I'm learning here in a tangible way is that the journey is by grace too. Years from now, I won't be able to boast that my wonderful child is somehow due to my amazing child-rearing abilities. Rather, I will need to humbly admit that who and what she is all comes from Jesus. He makes beautiful people through messes and certainly through imperfect mothers! Not even in spite of them, but through them. Praise God. And He will be working on me too. Clearly He will use this child, as He has used many other circumstances in my life, to make me less legalistic, less fearful, and way more full of grace, especially towards myself. 
Amen.
 
Thoughtfully,
Ellen H.

P.S. By the way, there's a sweet little song that relates to this:

"Grace Alone" (Scott Wesley Brown)

Every promise we can make, every prayer and step of faith,
Every difference we can make, is only by His grace.
Every mountain we will climb, every ray of hope we shine,
Every blessing left behind, is only by His grace.

Grace alone, which God supplies,
Strength unknown, He will provide
Christ in us, our Cornerstone
We will go forth-- in grace alone.

My two-week old daughter, happily asleep in The Swing.

A prayer for Cupcake.

My husband and I didn't decide on a name for our baby girl until after she was born, so while in the womb, her nickname was "Cupcake". She was born almost a month ago now (wow!) but for the sake of privacy, I'll continue to call her by her nickname on this blog.
Anyway, here is a prayer I wrote for her during my pregnancy:


Cupcake,

I pray that you are smart,
     but pray more that you are wise.
I pray that you are physically strong,
     but more so, morally strong.
Beautiful,
     but more a lover of God's beauty.
A good eater,
    but more so, satisfied by His Word.

May you be
     resourceful like your dad,
     passionate for others' good like your mom;
Like both your parents--creative,
yet exceeding them both in graciousness and courage.

Most of all,
may you be you,
and God help us as your parents
to encourage you to grow up to be just that--
     who He created you to be.


©Ellen H.  Written August 2016.

A fun little poem.

I was sitting at home: 40 weeks pregnant, feet up. I'd had a week of "vacation" (at home) since baby hadn't come yet but my maternity leave had begun... because let's be honest, swollen feet and a hundred incredulous looks from patients at work when I told them I was due so soon was getting old. The bright fall sunlight filtered over my couch where I sat. It was my due date, a Friday, and I was out of chores, errands and energy. So I had been coloring (no matter how in vogue it is, that statement from a 20-something still sounds immature to me!), and my mind was free to wander. Out of that came this silly little poem:

As I twist them in my hands,

ruffled skirts unravel from them,

drop to the floor,

revealing raw nude beneath

their colored coverings.

I spin them to keep them on point--

and I'm delighted to see what

beautiful pictures this creates.

...The title? "Dance of the Sharpening Colored Pencils" :-)



Thoughtfully yours,
Ellen H.

P.S. I didn't have to wait much longer for little one - she arrived two days later!

"Burial of a Dream": a poem

-->

What happens, after all, to a dream deferred?

…Is it buried, like a flower on a coffin?...

-->

Tearful,

I get up from my dream-garden,

gathering my favorites like flowers,

and take them all to bed with me,

arranged around my body like pillows,

supporting me, comforting me.

I lament that they can never be more than this:

sentimental support in a lonely time.

No more…

That’s how I am buried, then,

with pillows of old, befriended dreams

around me, a coronation

of blossoms, best for grieving.

Like flowers, they were gathered with joy.

Now, like flowers, they are buried with sorrow.

©Ellen H.

...The above is an ode, of course, to a famous poem:

-->

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

A pregnant woman's thoughts on culture's "Shrinking Women".

I've linked to this spoken poetry video before (because it's awesome), but I didn't comment on the content specifically. The poet talks about her "shrinking" mother being unsure "how much space she deserves to occupy" (see minute mark 2:30ish), and my self-consciousness about my newly expanding pregnant belly reminded me of this video.

Partly I think of this because I have always been self-conscious of my less-than-toned-abs, and have done my best to arrange my wardrobe to distract from that area. Then, suddenly, my second trimester belly is the source of attention and adoration. While this is cultural and sweet, I find that I can't simply change my mindset overnight, as it has been cultivated over years of insecure womanhood. When people tell me that my belly is "beautiful," I honestly have to think for a moment about why they would ever say that... especially say it out loud. Aren't others supposed to graciously ignore the bodily imperfections we are insecure about? ...And then I remember these people are referring to a baby bump. Perspective shift is a funny thing, isn't it?

And partly I identify with that line of the poem because my job as a medical assistant often requires invisible presence: I must physically help with my hands, but otherwise be silent and out of the way. During surgeries, I hold my sterile-gloved hands far away from my body, holding suture scissors and a tail of thread, being as still as possible, while the doctor is wedged up next to the patient to sew her up. This is normal and totally fine with me on a regular day. Lately, however, I wonder, Where will my 36 week belly fit in those situations, when I get to that point? Certainly my belly (and baby) deserve to occupy however much space they require, but it's not convenient.

Just like it's not convenient to be a "larger" person and fit into the backseat of a car with too many peers as we drive to Sonic for a late-night milkshake. Just like it's not convenient to be a "larger" woman in our culture--and I'm not even plus-size! I'll never forget the time in college when a big group of us were going on a road trip to a conference for the weekend, and we were short on cars. One of the guys looked from the remaining girls on the sidewalk to the last backseat of a car, and said frankly, "They're girls! Just squish 'em all together."

Do you see?
Do you see what that shows? That comment has stuck with me a long time. My friend didn't mean to be hurtful, of course. But do you see how culturally ingrained the shrunken "space that women deserve" is? Because college men "deserve" a different amount of personal space. You may not agree, but I believe he never would have said that about a bunch of guys of equivalent sizes.

It's not only inconvenient for women to take up as much space as men, but we are taught we must also recognize and apologize for what space we do occupy. The poet's words are so apt when she shares her own experiences. "I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks; I have been taught to filter....  You have been taught to grow out, I have been taught to grow in." Elsewhere, she observes, "I asked five questions in genetics class today, and all of them started with the word 'Sorry...'" It's incredibly subtle, this aspect of womanhood, but do you see it?

I read a wonderfully insightful book last year called "Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead" written by the COO of Facebook, Sheryl Sandberg. She cited studies that support these observations about accommodation: for example, men are pushier with their questions and will often blurt them out even after a speaker's Q&A session is over. Often those questions still get answered, but women's don't get their equally-valid questions answered because they didn't push. Women put their hands down and obey the rules. They accommodate. They filter.

This is not a rant. I am not complaining, truly. Maybe you think this is the craziest perspective on pregnancy ever, something that should be a miracle and a glorious experience. And please hear me, I am thrilled and grateful to be expecting a healthy girl. It is wonderful! I just see that years of subconsciously apologizing, long before I was pregnant, has made this difficult to unlearn. I am just saying, here and now, I do not want to apologize for my "inconveniently" expanding belly. Pregnancy even gets a special opt-out clause in this area, but I think this has been the opportunity to learn to stop my spacial insecurity-- forever. I think that is what this comes to for me: I have been taught to grow in, and do so invisibly. So growing out is decidedly difficult... yet good for me.


--Ellen H.

20 week ultrasound photo and bump<3 br="">

"Cognitive Dissonance": a poem.

It’s snowing in April.

A thick, heavy, slushy snow

outside my kitchen window.

I resent it

this weighted snow

burdening budding branches

and covering up the first green I’ve seen

in months.

But I also welcome it

with open arms--

I always welcome much needed moisture

and think of the Spring it will bring.

Besides, a snowy scene is serene,

no matter the month.

The two reactions stand up inside me

to fight

to decide who’s right.

But instead

my wizened head

peacefully steps in, because

I am learning to tolerate the tension

and the dissonance of Both/And.

We can both be hurt by each other

and

we can both be right, too, still.

Instead of assuming one must be wrong,

let us learn to honor each

as having its place

and just watch the snow come down

in April.

©Ellen H. April 18, 2016