Mere Words

Like I've said many times, I'm not a morning person.

But what is a non-morning person to do when he wakes up around five o'clock ... wide awake ... with a thought buzzing through his mind?

Well ... I lay there for a while ... watched the clock unscrolling the crawling minutes ... then reached for the small light I keep on the table beside the bed ... found a pencil ... and my multi-colored notepad (thank you, Michelle) in the shape of the letter B ... and started writing.

What I wrote is barely decipherable ... now that I'm fully awake ... and it's far from becoming a poem, but someday it might. I'll keep it, try to break the code, try to decide what it's trying to say to me.

And if it does turn into a poem, I'll feel compelled to share it with somebody ... I always have that "look what I found" feeling when something I've written does seem to make sense ... not "look at what I did" ... never that ... and when I share it with somebody, that somebody is likely to be a poetry editor.

I always treasure that second opinion ... especially on those rare occasions when the decision goes in my favor.

But if it doesn't ... well, I speak of that circumstance in today's poem:

MERE WORDS

You, my children,
offspring of my mind,
are going forth
into an imperfect world,
where you will be judged
by strangers. I hope
they will listen
and treat you kindly,
perhaps accept you
as their own.
If not, please return
and we shall comfort
each other.
© 1997
(originally published in Writer's Journal)

Today's word: comfort