BEAUTY IN THE STORM
Didn’t you know, girl, with the way it began,
that being a mom comes not quietly,
but hard crashes in?
I don’t imagine you knew.
How could you, child?
Motherhood’s loud, it’s messy, not mild.
Scant minutes of sleep
with spit on your gown.
“Why” questions flow with respite unfound.
You so often feel lost
in this trick love has played.
But you’re not misplaced, you are being remade.