She never said
what it cost to hold the world.
Just straightened her back
when it sagged,
tightened the thread
when it frayed,
made dinner
even when her hands shook.
Her spine—
a tide chart.
Each vertebra
marked by waves
she never let break.
You wouldn’t know it
to look at her—
how many storms
she swallowed.
How many times
she flooded
and held
anyway.
Some call it strength.
But strength is easy
when it’s loud.
What she has
is deeper.
Saltwater kind.
Old as the moon
and just as faithful.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 
Oh, Ryan, did you do the painting then your poem, or was it the other was round … either way, I love the ebbs and flows of this masterpiece, and again your finale is absolutely superb …
“What she has
is deeper.
Saltwater kind.
Old as the moon
and just as faithful.”
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Thanks so much, mate. The painting came second – I spoiled myself with a brand new iPad with a pencil and I’m having lots of fun playing with digital art. It’s a whole new world!
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Thanks, I was curious. Sometimes I take a photo, and it prompts to write a poem, other times I write a poem, then go out chasing a suitable photo …
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Yep, just how I work too 🙂
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