I have had an extremely full week and have been unable to put any energy into writing. Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago though!
Buried
The never ending piles of
Toys to be cleaned up
Dishes to be washed
Dinners to be made
Laundry to be sorted,
And hung up and ironed, preferably,
If you have the time.
Women are buried in it.
We are raising the next generation
But to what purpose?
If every generation of women's greatest work is
Raising the next generation,
Then honestly, when do we actually LIVE?
My grandmother raised my mother on the arm of my grandfather,
And my mother raised me, and now I raise my daughter.
I am not longing for grandchildren.
I don't plan on my ability to show off my future grandson.
I wonder what my daughter's own sparkle will be.
Which of her varied interests that bring her joy will she pursue?
She wants to be a fashion designer and a veterinarian,
Or at least volunteer at a shelter.
She can do it all.
