I found these on a piece of paper today as I start to pack. It's undated but I think it is from 1977.
My tears fall gently on our nursing baby.
Does he know of sadness? Maybe.
My fears grow heavy on my mind and wild...
Won't our struggles hurt our child?
Why can't I bottle these things inside?
Why don't I bury them; or run and hide?
Tears and fears, don't you have them too?
Why can't I share these things with you?
My heart aches
But dinner bakes
My hand shakes
But cuts the cakes
My smile fakes
Our baby wakes
Like a northern desert, dry and cold,
The season of sadness weathers my soul.
A winter wind blows sharp and bold.
My hunger waits by an unfilled bowl.
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