by Rosa Lee

Created on: December 04, 2009   Last Updated: December 05, 2009

Pale, my arms are weak.
They could not hold the horrors as bay;
not the ones which stalked at nighttime
nor the ones which caught me in the light of day.

Fuzzy, my arms are short.
They cannot reach the ones I prize;
not the one who moved away
nor the one who slowly dies.

Freckled, my arms are awkward.
They would not fold to embrace;
not the ones who come with gifts
nor the ones with pleading face.

Scarred, my arms are growing strong.
They can give comfort to others at last;
both the kitten who never knew love
and the baby with whom I have a past.

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