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.