Writing, whether for practical or impractical purposes,
Keeps me company.
In the late winter solstice evenings
Or early morning autumn hours,
On holidays or ordinary ones,
Words become proxy friends
Sharing happy news, calming
Frustration’s tears,
sealing memories, creating order.
Today’s words tell stories of impatience
As the day slides away, unproductively
And tomorrow, the end of the New Year
Promises nothing but the same old
Same old.
But then, almost without warning,
Revived words leap onto the page
Challenging me to figure it out,
Get thinking, doing, creating,
Plot, persuade, plead,
Until, like a magician’s swift hand,
They convince me–
that it matters, the thought; that
Words set revolutions afire,
Bind lovers, and lay us to rest.
So, I write again tonight
Because if I didn’t, there would
Only be darkness out of which
Comes nothing or no one. And
whether the words are read or
Sit silently, alone on the page,
They hold my hopes, joys, fears
They will not betray me if I weild them
respectfully–with care.
Word Play 