This Blanket, Woven with Love

Homelessness is often viewed by society as something that is a choice; you can choose to work, be productive, take care of yourself or you can choose to be lazy, sleep on the streets and demand that society provide for you.


This thinking has allowed us to consider homelessness as a ‘norm’ of society rather than a plague that we must be involved in creating a solution for. Illness, loss of job, mental illness, a sick child, rental increases, the list goes on and on and all of these things can cause homelessness.

I was gifted with this poem a few years ago, from a man who was homeless and lost because he had lost his family when he was quite young and his heart just never recovered. He wrote this poem for his brother who had died homeless, alone and wrapped in the baby blanket his mother had made for him. He is a man who still believes that he will have a better life, he will recover from his losses and he will matter, somehow, to someone.

When you walk by that homeless person in your community remember, he is a son, she is a daughter, they are parents, they are scared and alone. They are part of your community.


This blanket woven with love and care
Is laid over a newborn, frightened and bare.
They are held close in arms, tender, secure
And a mother dreams of her son’s future.

The little boy grows, watched by loving eyes
As he explores his world, its wonder, its size.
He knows the mother is close, is near
And he ventures his world without question or fear.

One day he comes home and his world is now gone
The house has been burned, his mother to the beyond.
So he takes up his blanket and a picture so worn
And walks away from the place he was born.

His heart is aching and his feet are so sore
He cannot find what he had before.
The blanket is dirty, he sleeps in a box
Afraid of the dark and no doors, no locks.

The man watches life, go past, go by
And the tears are now silent, he cannot even cry.
He doesn’t wish to be, it hurts to go on
He pulls the blanket close and waits for the dawn.

The winter steals in, steals his breath, ends his strife
The worn little blanket covers the end of his life.
And I mourn my brother who I loved so dear
Because without mother he forgot I was here.

So I walk the streets, await my turn to be free
My mother and brother have both now left me.
The blanket I carry, right next to my heart
So that it might some day, hug me when I depart.

By Derek, for my Mike
 
- Deb Runnals, Street Level Manager