Describe our mother sitting there
weave your hands in flowing hair.
Describe our father running there
push the walls of weak despair.
Describe our sister ridding there
see the infant in repair.
Describe our brother silent there
see the child stop and stare.
We grow into maturity as skirmishers
advancing through the country,
alert to the necessary hurt.
Accumulating the necessary ammunition
to face the enemy.
Accumulating options of illusions.
How to describe such bangs?
Hits of hurts
or jolts towards loving growth?