Broken stems

Broken Stems

Across the broad prairie, tall grasses wave;
Bluestems tall as houses, Gramma like the ocean
Rolling to the skies. A hugeness spreading
In all directions, tan and red and brown.
Shimmering bright and living in the sun,
A million million sheaves of grass woven
Together in a mat, densely through the ground.

But here and there, are broken stems;
Divided from the whole. They are not like the others.
Broken stems and broken roots; they cross among the rest.

Perhaps they'll spread to new zones, perhaps they'll
Bring new styles. They are different from the others.
Perhaps they'll find their place, perhaps they'll
Make their mark. They are not like their mothers.

It hurts my heart to see them. It tears me to the core.
But the broken stems don't know it. They grow their own
Patterns, they follow their own directions to the sun.

Dec. 9, 2008

I wrote this poem after reading an essay that made me think about my own experiences with differently-abled children. Follow link here to read a moving post by Jesuit novice Fr.Ryan Duns at his blog, A Jesuit's Journey considering the life an a profoundly autistic child in Christ.