52 Weeks of Gratitude, Week Fourteen: A talent you have
The pen strikes a pose, leaning against
the lines and lines and lines of words unspoken,
jittery with the expectation
of giving birth to something new, something extraordinary,
crying from the mother of imagination.
The pencil shuffles in, staring at
the floor of creativity with its hands folded
and humility written on its own harsh edges,
marked by hours of mistakes, days of sweaty palms
and fever-tossed nights of the draft.
The eraser is called up, a word’s been wounded,
fatally, and there’s no hope left for it
except to be put out of its misery, soon,
and the doctor bows his head, solemnly
as the dark figures march by, line after line after line.