I have been lying on my bed again, letting my mind wander,
curling my hair around my index finger
– so comforting –
watching the clouds roll in
and the birds bouncing in the wind.
I bet artists and poets and writers have always
been called lazy and useless.
My mind meets a little girl in a classroom somewhere
scolded for turning her attention to the world beyond the window.
One day, that little girl might write a poem
that has enough strength to thaw a frozen heart
and the heart’s love, once held hostage in the ice
would flow down the mountain and join the Great River.
Even if it took her fifty years of daydreaming at the window
to pen that one poem
wouldn’t that be enough to die and say
that was a life well spent?
Love and courage,
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