A Writer�s Prayer I…

A Writer�s Prayer

I here invoke no god. The words enough
themselves, the tale they tell. And neither will
I call on Art; it may emerge, but rough-
hewn craft, hard-won, suffices still.

The labor of the silent weary hours,
the fight for the right word, in the right place;
a host of golden daffydowndil flowers,
erupting from the blasted, barren waste.

We fear the empty page. The throng of cares
that steals us from our work may seem a gift;
the child, the spouse, the job, the house � the shares
we�ve portioned out � but life is short and swift.

Writer, to thy path thou must close-hew;
Make time � and then, be brave. Speak true.

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