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| When Perspective Comes Through |
Forgive me, child,
For losing sight in anxious, cluttered living,
Of your bright-eyed attempts to please.
The spilled cereal and the muddy boots, kicked aside,
Are small inconveniences
When perspective comes through
I really don't mind putting patches on the knees
Of another pair of jeans
(I'm sure the slide to home plate was worth it).
I don't care, too much, if your bedroom looks
Like the remains from a spontaneous explosion
(Though often treated like such a crisis).
I don't mind that you don't especially listen well,
Considering what there is for you to hear;
Much of what is said to you hits hard
With disappointment and defeat.
How briefly we recognize your accomplishments,
Yet how we belabor your faults!
The truth is, I don't mind finding your socks and combing your hair
On a slept-too-late morning.
And when you tease
They don't mind so
(Though they react,
your sisters, too often and too long, very much
with mean and hateful tones).
I sent you off to the world today,
Gulping to swallow tears that answered criticism.
"Don't be late!" I hollered. "Hurry up, get going!"
I saw your helpless, aching heart, right through
The brimming pools of blue that glanced at me
As I shoved you through the door.
"Have a good day, Mom,"
Slipped from beneath your breathlessness
As the door closed abruptly at my hand.
I really don't mind if you are late getting home
Because you found another new "short-cut,"
Or if you rush through the door with mud-covered friends.
And when you toss papers and coats on the closest chair
I won't mind removing them
As you look to me for some small sign of approval.
Forgive me, child,
For making you think I do mind,
For treating you like such a bother.
Going through life with you is my special privilege;
Your bright-eyed desire to please means so much,
When perspective comes through.
-- Suzanne Dean |
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