Twenty-six days. Four more to go. Writing a poem every day.
It’s been fraught, this undertaking intentional creation. I feel as if I’m on a tightrope making my way across an open space without a net or a balancing pole.
I wonder who will care that I write poems every day this month. As I write my daily poems, I worry everyone will see I don’t know what I’m doing. That I’m a fraud.
Yet, I am doing it.
The trick, I finally understand, is to move forward even when the way is unclear. It’s the willingness to sit with the uncertainty, to embrace negative capability.
they are people more famous than I will ever be
they hold hearts beating
palm up to the heavens
they see paths undreamt of
to places beyond imaging
yet they, like me, sit in dim corners
on sunbright patches of grass
and know, skin pebbled with cold,
the mob eager for our unmasking
is just behind us