Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
I thought of all the things I try to carry—
thanked her. Then surprised, I disagreed.
Why carry troubles, haul a life’s debris
as if I were a barge, a human ferry?
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
I took her words as blessing, certainly—
a benediction, kind and customary,
but thinking more about it, disagreed.
I felt the lifelong weight of all I cleave to—
convictions, hopes, and moods both blithe and scary
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
Imagine if I dropped the weight, was freed
from the heroic self that makes me weary.
Her words were kind, but should I disagree?
Part of me clings to that belief—
that I must carry on, though spent, though teary.
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
But must I? Part of me does not agree.
*
Hi friends, for kicks, this poem is written in an old French form, the villanelle. You can read all about its history and how to write one here.
