The Ordinary Poet
She sits alone at midnight
Propped up on her pillow
With pen in hand
She listens to the wind blow
Thoughts flutter in the moonlight
To and fro
She writes in whispers
Dark Night of the Soul
What cherished dreams
Her heart let go
When circumstances stole her time
She tucked away inside her mind
And grieved the dreams she left behind
And all a woman longs for
At forty-five or so...
To read her poems, her life, her story
Reveal the themes that still control me
I have prose she's written for me
Between loads of laundry and cups of coffee
Songs scribbled on a paper bag while driving to the grocery
And this is art...
Practical and holy
While life is not a long romance
And life comes with a million deaths
Her dreams will have a second chance
For God redeems mistakes, regrets
His hand, HIs hand, is sovereign in this dance
Suddenly hope rises
From ashes of rejection
Past paradigms shift
Could it be a resurrection?
An open door no man can shut
Calls her name midst the rut
Of mundane acts
And tedious facts
And grief she can't forget
Those worn out words upon her page
"Wise men know that seasons change."
It isn't over yet...