If I could pick up the pieces
and build a bridge from me to you,
we’d brush our hair with scents of yesterday’s living,
color our lips with stains of mauve secrets.
There would be miles of many years,
across miles of tears and sacred truths.
We’d hang the railings with aprons tied together,
and our bras that covered our bosoms of nurturing souls.
Bridging over rivers from birthing beds wet with sweat and fluids from the womb,
we would cry the storms with tears of sorrow, spring rains with tears of joy.
If I could pick the pieces of all our pain and build the hopes with the strength remain,
we would hear the chorus of all before us and harmony welcome those to come.