As a little girl, I spent much of my time digging in the backyard and dreaming up stories. I’m discovering that this activity still brings me remarkable inspiration. This poem I share with you came to me while digging weeds out of the back lawn.

At the top of the list
of things I hate to be told
is,
“Let the boys do that.”
My father taught me strength
as strong as a rose,
that pierces its predators
and, despite storms,
grows and
grows and
grows.
Do not impose your weakness
upon me.
Do not think me unfeminine
if I wear bare feet
instead of heels,
or name car parts
instead of shades of pink⎼
or rather, do not think
this dress I wear,
the flower in my hair,
the pretty paper I refused to tear,
make me weak.
I was fourteen the first time someone told me,
“Let the boys do that.”
I’ve heard this refrain
countless times since.
Yet I’ve carried scores of eight-foot Christmas trees,
been elbow-deep in engine grease,
sparked blazing bonfires all alone,
sanded wood until it shone,
rolled a mansion’s walls with paint,
climbed a mountain without complaint,
built a bed frame, built bookshelves,
carved more spears than Tolkien’s elves.
I can lift this box.
I can lift this box,
and, should I need help,
I will ask.
I fear asking for help
as little as I fear giving it.
I love my father,
my uncles,
my cousins,
my friends,
my brothers,
but do not tell me
to let the boys do that.
Love this so much!! ;)
Thank you!