I created a small human.
To bear her broke my back
but mended my soul.

Then I made her
almost too big to carry anymore.
The day will come, my soul will crack.

I think sometimes of a post
that one day your parents set you down
and never picked you back up again.

If they were both around,
it was maybe your father
who picked you up last.

His back bent, but unbroken.
And your mother iron,
already carrying so much.

I created a small human,
and she created me right back.
Molded me with her tiny hands.

When I set her down that last time
her feet will be steady.
But what of the land beneath them?