She will guide your hand and your heart, ink
to blood and back again, a soul of words
and music of language, a gift of muse
to bring you hope in the saying of all things.
She will protect you from the frights of shadow
and frigid midnights lonely and searching
for anything with meaning or hope;
Her hope shall be joyous and orgasmic.
She will sing your comfort in starlight
and summer breeze, warmth itself,
and in yourself a language will spin
like a dancer drunk with happiness,
and the words will come.
The words will come.
I, the poet jobe, spent my first thirty or so years wandering this land from ocean to ocean. Mountains, plains, and deserts. No roots, no fruit. My second thirty years or so years I spent in the Sacramento Valley, digging in, with my roots growing and my fruit showing. This way feels better.
I’ve heard that life often runs in seven year cycles, and soon I will be sixty-three. A new cycle begins! Yay! Of course, I cannot know what this cycle will bring, but I will keep pen and paper handy. To tell you.