My family tree was a weeping willow,
un-watered, unsheltered,
dying fast in raging storms.
The neighborhood heard the thunder crack,
and blow by domestic violence blow,
the willow wept.

Foster care was a brittle, barbwire cactus,
Aloof, neglected, forgotten by all
but the beatings of old ferocious winds
that scouted the desert plains,
hunting for the weak and vulnerable.

We survived.
Comfort never came,
but we had each other.

The once dying weeping willow dances now,
in breezes soft and slow.
It's branched arms conduct an orchestral overflow of love.
Our children are born
and play beneath the new green growth.
Wrapped safely in it's leafy tendrils,
we call it home.




An older poem I wrote.

But I wanted to say I am going to actually begin to publish now. Time and people have convinced me too.