This poem was inspired by Grammy and by all the women who came after her, and even by the ones who came before. Most especially, though, it's Georgia on my mind. This poem doesn't say everything that could be said. In fact, it doesn't say nearly enough. I guess that's why we have music: for the times we don't have words, and for the people for whom we'd run out of them.
Music Box Women
Women with straight backs and beautiful smiles
Who live like mountains
Who love their children
Who never stop singing
You can see them scintillating from a mile away
Lighting up kitchens and classrooms and boardrooms and stages
With hair softly curled around diamond-hard minds
With skirt pleats pressed and seasonal sweater vests
They tower over our decades remaining
In sequins and aphorisms and Broadway lyricism
They dance the steps that taught us grace and groove
The ones we'll teach our daughters
They click their heels and go nowhere
Because they landed long ago on a place called home
And even when they move house
Change tack
Or venture far from hearths well known
They bring with them their
Circle-'round-the-campfire charisma
Their arms and hearts so strong and wide
And bellies stretched to cradle their babies
They warm the Arctic places
And build foundations in granite and steel
Carrying a tune so lightly and lovely
You sometimes don't notice they also carry the world
These music box women might unwind more slowly
But are never broken
Even after they leave a final note ringing
Because they stand on our dressers and hang on our walls
And whenever we see them
We still hear their song
And on good days and hard days and certainly Sundays
We find ourselves humming along
When our credits roll
Their names appear
In places like producer and director and volunteer of the year
And if you stay ‘til the end and listen
You’ll find that the lovely and true tune that they carried
Was there in the background carrying you
