Pick up what’s left of the shadow that has been trailing you for a week or three, the one you have noticed even when the sun hasn’t been shining as it should.
Of course there have been distractions (there always is), even as your nerves are beginning to fray, and all those anxieties still follow you, surprisingly so, on any old day.
Intermittent rain washes away hopes and plans dreamed on and diminished now. Still, you have the time and, more importantly, you have the mind to make it all happen.You’ve got something more important to say.
Poetry is power, and poetry is a weakness, as much cowardice as courage. A delightful contradiction, it sucks at your soul, and, like a fussy infant, cannot wait to be fed. More. Not to be silenced until sated. Nourished then, it so slips into gentle slumber, life’s rhythm allowing dreams and sweet solace, only to wake soiled and screaming. Comfort comes with a soothing voice, gentle touch, and reassurance. Flesh and blood, innocent for only a while, it grows alongside you, until it stands on its own. Poetry. You give it life, then it to you.