A poem on a Friday night . . . .
I ask for guidance
The words fall
Nobody buys it
What am I doing?
I get up at 4:50 a.m.
Every day is the same
Or not
15 years gone . . . How?
I write
I pray
A master at creating
Not at this I say
I keep showing up
I stumble
I bounce back
Who am I?
Another tarot card?
I sit, I’m still, I listen
I see a mother and her son, learning
I hear the words
“You’ve helped so many people”
Maybe in small ways
Maybe not what I imagined
Maybe that’s enough
