Hush, child, be still.
This striving is not yours.
You run around in circles
like a bloodhound on the trail,
your nose pressed in the mud,
but you don’t even know
what it is you’re searching for.
Driven along by a
primal instinct, an animal
hunting day and night, but
for what? Some image in your
head of who you think I am?
Rest, child, be still.
This striving is not yours.
Lie down on the mossy
bed at the river’s edge
and sleep, and I will lie beside you,
and sing your tender song,
and stroke your forehead softly as you dream.
And when the time has come, when your
spirit rests at last, I will rouse you from your
slumber with a gentle nudge,
and lift you by the hand, and we’ll
walk along the water, together then as one.
Quiet, child, be still.
This striving is not yours.
© stephanie pepper, 2020
stephanie pepper 
I really like this one, so much. And, since I am some days removed from learning about some old family gossip, your story about it is so much clearer. But that’s why it’s such a good poem—whatever the worry of the reader, it speaks to that worry.
I see such maturing in your writing. You should be so very proud of yourself. I certainly am proud of you!
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Thank you! It makes me happy to know that the poem can mean more than just what it means to me. Thank you for all your support and encouragement. It means everything to me! 🖤
I cried. So tender 🖤🖤🖤 Beautiful
Sent from my iPhone
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Thank you, friend. 🖤🖤🖤