Every morning we meet.
Just me
and the pen,
and the paper,
and the words,
and the dark,
and the hope,
and the love,
and the eventual disappointment.
Okay, there isn’t always “disappointment”.
But there isn’t always “hope”, either.
There is, however, always “love”,
even if dimly registered.
It is there;
always.
Why else would a person get up,
at some ungodly hour,
every morning,
and sit
with the pen
and the paper,
and the dark,
and the ghosts,
and the memories,
and the tears,
and the fear,
and the loss,
and the pain,
and the numb,
trying to explain it all?
Who would do that,
if not for love?
Just sitting here,
in the pre-dawn black
every morning
pulling myself
out of myself
for love.
What else would drive a person
to sit here,
every morning
with the pen
and the paper,
and the love,
and the past,
and the future,
and the night,
and the day,
and the sky,
and the Earth,
and the mind,
and the body,
and know that surely,
it is love…
… unless it is insanity…
… there is always insanity.
It doesn’t always have to make sense.
HG – 2017
