They don’t know her

Although she stands on the frontlines

They don't know her

Even as she navigated through the times

They know nothing of her but the whisper 

Of her voice in the relentless flowing springs

They know nothing of her blisters

But of the beauty her toiling brings

 

They see the castles towering over head

Whos beauty and eloquence could not have been bred

In the mind of uninspired man of rigid stuature.

They see their artists, writers and actors 

Of great skill and passion, 

But overlook the force guiding them.

 

For they do not know her

They know not that she stood at the side Picasso

And whispered into the ear of Shakespeare

That she granted her smile for Leonardo

They did not see her sitting at Washington’s right hand

Nor see her guide Harriet to the Underground

They did not see her give Martin Luther King a craving for a free land

Nor did they see her urge Rosa stand her ground 

 

Blind to her larger influence in culture

They were ignorant to her deeds that were smaller.

Small, though they were, they carried just as much weight

As she battled against hopelessness and self hate.

 

They do not know her

They do not see her sit beside the bed

Of their sick child, banishing away the fears

And all despair that was bred.

They did not feel her touch every time they shed tears

They do not feel her hands lift them in times of woe

Giving them the strength to take one more step

Toward that long awaited goal

Guiding and guarding every  misstep

 

As their life long friend she sighed in delight

As parents stop their work to tell their kid goodnight

She cries in joy and sadness at each and every turn

Wishing you all the things you deserve.

 

She is the muse of passion, 

The cornerstone of ambition

The drive to live and build relentless

Casting out the shame of weakness

Only seeing the potential in all.

She is the wind passing and caressing all

Touching each life one way or another

Binding all humans as sister and brother.

 

They do not see her

But she is always there

For whether there is barren heart or land of weeds

Hope always comes to plant its precious seeds