Writing Poems

I want to give you a gift.
But all I have
are these words.

They don’t seem like much
against all the terrible things
that have happened.
Or will happen.

I don’t know how
to fix all of that-
which is not to say
that I will stop trying.
We are meant to help carry
each other’s burdens.

For now, though,
the only real thing
I know to give
are these words.

Within them
you will find my evolving truth,
which I hope
will reflect
or at least remind you of
your own truth

which lies
beneath the busy-ness,
the brokenness,
the chaos and the fear
in your quietest heart.

It is your own poem.
And it is pure goodness.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith