Close to home
Cocooned away from social constructs
Here my worth is not what I earn
Here my worth is being part of a tribe.
Contributing to the circle.
Crouched in dirt, knees bent
Circled by flames
Living out this very moment.
Dens, long grasses, lego houses, fallen leaves,
Boiled broth and hunting for beasts.
Resting on damp tree stumps
Moss growing to the North.
No future to fret
No past to drag
In my tribe.
One of us tip taps away upstairs
Working his way
Across the digital airwaves
Bringing home the bacon.
But I, mother, sit with our young
Under stitched together threads
Scattering voices amongst a herd of soft toys
Watching torch light dash across our back lit den
And I have my chance
A lockdown freedom to warm by the fire.