Life moves smoothly when our men are gone to sea, hunting and processing whales for five years or more.
Babies arrive during the first year. Then, finally, we’re free from that routine.
Our boys become kind and thoughtful without men chiding Only snivelers cry.
Our girls become beauties without men eyeing them with intent.
And we, the women, follow rules created among us, sans the hindrance of ego and imagined power.
A singular sadness falls on our shoulders when we first spy the whalers returning.
We retire to our homes, remove our husband’s pants and don uncomfortable corsets and dresses.
Up From the Ashes 