Monday, August 27, 2012

I knew not to build on sand.

What was I supposed to be
supposed to do
the world for you?

Miracles I thought
were pots full of hope.
So, with every meal I cooked
every plant I nurtured
every line I wrote
every book I read,
new tomorrows were evolving
around us
bright packages
at the back door
fair bargains
for my naive prayers.

I had no business
expecting more,
illiterate as I
in the ways of miracles.

I was the type of mother
who knew not which  roads
to travel
which story to weave
which mine to invest in
what silver spoons were or weren't
or what they would be used for.

I walked on sandy shores every day
looking to reach solid ground
so your first steps would be stable
your voice clearer
your talent
planted on fertile ground.

Who would have predicted
the seismic change
of fortune
that turned solid ground
to slippery sands in seconds.

I knew not to build on sand.
I didn't know not to build with miracles.


  1. Your lingering feeling of loss comes through your words. Hugs, Rosaria. I know the pain will never go away, but hopefully it will become bearable.

  2. Tears from this, the desire to be what is needed, to be the miracle somehow. But we are sand, aren't we, even as we walk on it?

  3. oh Rosaria,so sorry
    I send you a hug

  4. Keep building Rosaria, I don't think he would want you to stop now. Hugs and knowing your poems here are heard

  5. Ohhhh, rosaria. I think we are all "illiterate in the ways of miracles" and walking on sand...we try so hard...hugs to you.

  6. Wonderful, Rosaria...heart speaks to heart!

  7. This is so delightful. Building with miracles seems even better than building on rock.

  8. Your tackling hard things here and liking up with all of us who walk on sand and suffer miracle illiteracy and have our hearts broken.

  9. I pause and think...thank you.