Thursday, November 14, 2019

Called to the Page: A New Poem



Every morning,
mug of hot cinnamon tea in hand,
I go down the stairs to the green table
flush with goddess figurines, Tarot decks
and a view of both the lowlands below
and the rise beyond this hill.

Every morning,
I am called to the page.
The old leather journal heavy
with lined paper that will soon be
either put aside or tossed,
in light of my mortality and the desire
to spare my children the chore
of having to choose whether to read
my musings or to feel guilty when
throwing them away unread.

This routine, this daily habit,
is not so rote as to be meaningless,
even when the writing is boring
blah-blah-blah.
Ink flows from the silver fountain pen,
shaping letters that fill the blank space,
running from line to line, all valuable 
because they are called, I am called, 
to the page.

Does it matter if anyone reads my words, 
if they are never published?
Is being published what makes 
a writer? No.
What makes a writer 
is being called to the page.
Understanding that,
I am satisfied.