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.