with conviction, mothers raise their children in prayers like rivers of the night, like the dreams of the negro mother. A higher Love, through adversity, through trauma and tragedy. through all night prayers, sitting by the bedside,
awaiting -little makings of something beautiful.
A higher Love,
that love would ask a mother’s dream – be heard over preaching reins of suffering up storms,
be heard again in the quiet ache and swarm.
allow the the dust to settle in a moment a woman is born…
Her prayers will breathe.
Dear God, for all of our Mothers
our prayers will wear our names as embers that burn before the throne
prayers that be: raging, weeping, sowing , seeping prayers that break the monotony, degradation and brutality prayers that have no end and no beginning. ~kindness sis Krissy.
A Poet's Vision 
Just when I think you couldn’t possibly write something more gorgeous than what you already have, you serve up something like this. Beautiful work, Krissy!
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aw, thank you thought I’d jump back into posting- I’m missing all of your beautiful work…
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What Lori said … and oh so much more personal visceral … surely of my two grandbabies but still of my think-they-are-so-grown-up kids who worry about when they might need to take care of me prayers that are still raging, weeping, sowing, seeping.
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Amen sister Amen
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Love this.Thanks
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thank you kindly ❤
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