when they were tender little shoots, i so easily tended them, knowing always what each look meant, each sound, each word, each sigh, always able to know when to water, when to fertilize, how to protect them from winter winds. now they are grown, each with their own shiny leaves and their own thorns too, having grown into their fullness, leaving me standing, heart in hand, still offering yet not really needed, and i am lost....
when they were tender little shoots, with all possibilities stretched out before them in brilliant array, row after row of dreams sparkling like gems in the high morning sun, it was so easy to believe they would always know the right road to take and, if not, that i would always know how to guide them to where they needed to go. but now i find it is not so. we stand on this road now together, dust in our hair, the horizon escaping our penetrating gaze, not knowing...suspended in the space between questions, my children and i, suspended......i still can see their tenderness, still can recall days of thinking i knew all i needed to know to be that guide to guide them....never has wrong tasted so bitter to the tongue.
1 comment:
Lovely, really lovely. And a reminder that when they were tender little shoots, so were you. And that tender little shoots are more prone to use the tip of the tongue, the part where sweetness is known. It takes a lot of shooting to get to the back of the tongue, where bitterness lies. I suppose this is why it is difficult to be both bitter and tender at the same time.
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