By Ina Grace
A river, though it slows, It always passes by And are the blueish hues its own Or borrowed from the sky? A piece of clay can take a shape, And then so many more And every wall that bears a paint What is it, at its core? And those who knew no home to last New form to fit new place Ceaselessly forever ask Which roads they must erase Which strings are those that I must cut And from my heart renounce And will there after be enough To ground and hold me down If I let go What I hold close Will there still be Inside of me Enough to hold me down?
Ina Grace is a triple citizen (American, Filipina, Spaniard), who has also lived in Germany, Netherlands, Denmark and Sweden. She dedicates herself to the art of homemaking, which involves both planning and administering domestic affairs as well as monitoring the healthy development of family dynamics in her home. She’s a philosopher at heart, always interested in the “why” of things.
