this is freedom

This is my little piece of reality from the world. This is what convinces me the writing must go on in spite of me. There were weeks -- months? -- of silence, but they break at this sight.

Who told me it was all about me? Who told me I must have one last snippet of freedom and laziness before children break my individuality? "Sleep all you can now." That's what she said.

No, live all I can! Write all I can! Worship, sing, fly all I can! Not because I'll miss my chance come October (though I may), but because I'll miss my chance -- come tomorrow -- if I don't.

This is freedom.

the man in the middle of the street

There's a man in the middle of the street.
And his wheelchair has replaced his legs.
He holds a sign for help.
And I drive by,
wondering what his life is like
and why he chooses sign-holding as his career.

But I never ask him,
so I never know.

for all lost

For months lost,
for readers lost,
for opportunities,
for words
lost.
For worship lost,
for all lost --
I have gained.