Every year, on New Years, I write a poem. Every year, I’m sure I don’t have another in me, the well is dry. But then a first line leaps out of the creative chaos I call my mind. And I jot the thought down on a scrap of paper or a new window on my computer screen, expecting to return to it later, when the day is quieter or the current task I’m tackling is finished. Of course, that’s not what happens.
Gives me hope.
I'm glad
Great title, powerful poem!
Thanks Paul