Featured Blog Post: Welcome Home by Claire Lee

Her cool leather hands grow weary

With every threadbare inch.

Yet her passionate flames grow brighter

With every blade of wind.

Her heart’s ablaze,

Her chin held high.

Threads unravel from her dress.

And her scarred face is bared for all to see

From behind rust-red hair fleeing weathered neck.

Bright as youthful days

And free as the circling eagle overhead

As if the wretched sun itself,

Pounding down on beaten backs,

Was etched onto her scalp.

Yet she stands upright still.

And she stands, undoubtedly steel.

Eyes are closed.

Heads are bowed.

Apathetic hands are clasped

In a mindless cult of thoughts and prayers.

We’re brainwashed to believe it’s

An endless loop.

A catch 22.

And so grief is stitched tightly on her cheek

And she roars and sobs with despondent pleas.

Her broken trust poisons children’s streams.

And yet.

Eyes stay shut.

You choose not to see.

And mouths cannot speak

Rather, you do not speak

Of that permanently stained apron

Tattered beyond belief

Wrapped neatly around her waist

As if to declare her brokenness

To the masses.

To those that value the price of land

With no regard for ancient blood spilled.

To those who will never comprehend

The power of those who fear the future.

To those who erase tragedy itself

Expecting peace and joy.

And yet she stands.

And shouts through the forest.

Echoing back lost hope.

Her eyes twinkle with dreams come true

And dull with thousands crushed.

Her shoes are adorned with gold

And worn thin by a trek across time.

Her ears shine with slipping faith.

She screams strength.

And bleeds sorrow.

Still, she rings her broken bells of liberty,

And opens her arms with a:

“Welcome home.”