I pushed off long ago,
barely looking back.
Part of it was caused
by circumstance,
other parts by willfulness
or what we mean
when we say
I had no choice.
What happened
in the intervening years
would fill an archive,
but no more or less
than anyone else’s
harlequin life.
I cannot clearly tell
what parts shone
with more lucidity
than foolishness,
or where I found
the courage to rise
above the givens of this
grasping self. So many
moments as if doomed
from the start
taught me how difficult
it is to shelter hope,
how necessary to hold
its stubborn flicker,
cupped against
the not yet known.
In response to Via Negativa: Writing process.