So today I share a poem that I relate to because I can't. I just can't be creative. There is dinner to make, vacuuming and laundry, planning activities, showers to encourage, and an endless sea of clothes to put away and counters to wipe.
Recall the Carousel
Recall the carousel. Its round and round.
Its pink lights blinking off and on.
The children’s faces painted garish colors against
an institutional wall. And the genetics. The
We won’t be here too long ... Do not step off ...
The carousel? Do you recall? As if
we were our own young parents suffering again
after so many hundreds of hours of bliss.
And even the startling fact that
what had always been feared might come to pass:
A familiar sweater in a garbage can.
A surgeon bent over our baby, wearing a mask.
But surely you recall
how happily and for how long
we watched our pretty hostages go round.
They waved at us too many times to count.
Their dancing foals. Their lacquered mares. Even
a blue-eyed hunting hound
was still allowed back then.
OK. This just ruined carousels for me.
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