til the pencil shone the tiniest flame on its point,
ignited the paper as you figured and wrote,
you wrote for Elizabeth who lost her baby,
you wrote for Christy who lost her will,
you wrote for Jes who lost and lost more,
and you wrote for Stacey who hoped always,
you wrote for Kathryn even as she wrote for herself
because two pencils are better than one.
and finally Pat said, "you write for everyone but you."
so you wrote for you.
you wrote so hard you didn't feel the movement,
being carried on the shoulders of the light
and your mother
and your father and sister,
you just kept writing
and they said
"Don't stop. We're here, but we can't do it for you.
write, honey, write
you're so very close."
the pencil got shorter til it was nothing but a nub,
then a final mark.
it was finished.
and when there was nothing left to write,
you looked up from the paper,
and saw how dark it was where you'd been hunkered.
you peeked out of that cave - the entrance
had been just inches away though you hadn't
been able to see it -
there was green,
there was gold,
and all your favorite
shades of blue.
the birds cheeped a welcome,
they'd waited so long for you.
stepping one bare set of toes for the green grass,
a long ivory leg followed.
you didn't even squint in the bright light,
you were made for it and of it.
the warm ground met your first step and next.
you were home.
come out, old troll. come out of your dark hole, old troll.
come out into the sunlight with us,
and let us put daisies in your hair...
(from Women, by Charles Bukowski)
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| from Silverstein's The Giving Tree. |