the bridge
No one can build you the bridge on which you, and only you,
must cross the river of life. —Friedrich Nietzsche
it didn’t look
like my mother’s—
so foreign, she
didn’t understand,
and not apprehending,
rejected
the width, breadth
and depth of what
I was building—
my way through life
the components
I chose:
piles that drove deep,
caps and bents
to spread weight,
decking for the path
I walked,
girders that soared
into light
my bridge
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 
Amrita, I loved the bridge. I can see you writing it. Sitting at your big office desk.. So you.. Love, Patrice
WordWranglingWoman Sent from my iPad
>
LikeLike
Chuckling–thanks!
Much love,
Amrita
LikeLike
Wonderful! I love: It didn’t look like my mother’s”
“girders that soared into light, my bridge”
Yum !!!!!!
LikeLike
Thank you! I had fun learning about bridge parts when I wrote it.
LikeLike