I have often heard that writing is like opening a vein,
It is more akin to a deep flowing river
There is a magic ladle-like all artists have
And we continually dip it into that creative stream all humans have.
It doesn't wan or wax,
But just keeps flowing...
(Hum to the tune of "Ole Man River")
Can morning air be sharp and attack the delicate membranes?
It makes us take notice,
A quiet alarm for our senses.
The unfolding of the sky,
The punctures of the bright orbs,
Inviting the infinite promise of a new day.
You hear, all the time,
That life is about choices,
Well it is.
Sometimes huge and sometimes small,
But life has a way of willing out.
Sunrise, sunset-nature endures through all our foibles,
We sacrifice and wait and it does no good,
Some choices are out of our control.
