We cradle babies, and cradle hearts;
and so we cradle all the dreams and wishes and
stories that spill from us.
We all are wombs, caring for emotions,
caring for needs, caring for
understandings, differences; we take special
care in tugged at seams.
We care and carry so much we slosh,
sometimes begging for release. But
never do we yearn to flounder;
proceed we do, struggling, still caring,
still holding tight;
we clutch each other tightest
when in rolls the night. We swaddle,
and hush, and sing lullabies—Oh do we try.
We know, through the belly, that
we are all the same. When one of us breaks
all hands bend down and say,
“It’ll all be alright. We’ve got you.”
It’s alright, I’m here.
We all fall down. We all need.
We all try. It’s good that you care.
Hush. It’s alright; someone’s here.
Pain is the cradle we share.
I get lonely, too.