Wednesday, September 9, 2015


I am stymied, without voice, uncertain as to who I am. I have become too old, afraid of wrong choices, afraid of changing, afraid of  lost time, afraid of a truncated future.  Dreams are only for the young. That joy, passion, fearlessness has somehow spilled from my cupped hands.  It seeps into the earth.  I am inert.  I call myself deliberate, born of a practical bent. but the truth is fear has clasped my heart, whispered failings in my ear. I am mired.

So I acknowledge this and lift one foot and then another, eyes wide open, breath deep, on and on until I am further along, a sudden decision made in this golden season, this barely autumn of a life, so foreign to me, unrecognizable.  And slowly I begin to love this creature I have become, realize there is yet time, future, dreams to be had, remaining.  It is this that keeps me calm, a dropped leaf on still waters, peaceful, though without true movement.  until a current catches me and i revel in the tumult, the uncertainty, bobbing in the eddy, to resurface, bouyant, gripping fast to life, finding joy, finding place, becoming, once again. 


  1. Yes, we are never too old to dream, to find the joy in simple wonder. We are always becoming. xo

  2. thank you for coming to my writer's blog. :) and so it came to me that very thought when the gloom lifted. as the spirit of beleving in future was expressed in the later part of the free verse. again thank you. we are in agreement. ✨