Hot Fuchsia Flower
A mishmash of volumes protrude
An uneven horizon, jagged line
Tomes housed on dusty oak shelves
Among them I know a few
Whose hearts and hands
Wrote these words
As I age
Many more of my nearest and dearest
Line my shelves with their dreams realized
And my dream
Muse eludes me now
She’s cliffhanging with 52,000
Disheveled words
Her story longing its own birth
Like threads yet to be woven
Unable to carry her weight
She could snap and perish
Or she could bloom again
Much like an over pruned crate myrtle
Waiting to show its hot fuchsia flower
Yet it is that flower that scares her
Can she really share her world?
And all that it encompasses?
She must.
Kristen Haskell
Posted over on her site Living in the Middle
Listed as #42 over on Magpie Tales 66
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