to make something of myself

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 I am but a drop in a bucket of water

trembling over the rim, waiting, wavering

surface tension, like music, like rests


I am waiting, in a cocoon of skin and hair

the sun rises, and sinks, over and over

waiting, I write, I sleep, I live


Thriving day to day, living day to day

waiting for the trumpet call, waiting for resonance

Am I another keeper in an dead grove?


The fall leaves crunch underfoot

as I walk forward, forever walking forward

Every day I look back; the path yawns shortly


I can see so many spiderwebs before me

Branching in shimmering octets of sound

Will I choose my own harmony

 

Forever I walk forward

Forever I look back, and then I squint at the sun

So far away, and yet it surrounds me

 

I have yet to tread my path with determination

I have resigned myself to follow the highway

But one day I will make this path my own. 

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