Back from the dig
having gathered
long buried fragments of yourself
from the ends of the earth
You spread them on the workbench
Steady the tiny brush in your hand
Carefully work away the debris
You will be whole again
Or close to it
glued up cracks
clay filling the gaps
but first come the tedious tasks
much harder than a jigsaw puzzle
the elusive patterns among the shards
misleading clues
late at night after night
under the lamp’s glare
trying to make sense
of the way you unraveled
just when you think
it’s all coming together
some surprise, something overlooked
more work to be done
you grip the brushes too firmly
your practice becomes sloppy
your poems have no discernible meter
and resort to obvious metaphors
How many times have you walked away at this moment?
How many abandoned projects fill your closets?
Will this latest effort be thrown on the pile?
Eyes burning, you turn your lamp off
for the night
pray to whom it may concern
for the patience to persist.
