Stacked sympathy cards lie like a stymie
in the line of play. Victims cry, why me,
finally see how they screwed up, fooled around.
The accusations fly, the guilt abounds.
Here in my path of service, aiming high
I praise morning, stare into glary sky.
I’ve learned I’m ever in the place I need
to be, intuitive vigilance heed.
Each wise whispered heart-voice counsels to still
and in creative space, imagine, drill
past all the seeming obstacles. The shag
untidy begs a second glance. Tool bag
brimming, I center, ground and breathe. Expand
beyond constraints of time. At my command
joy rises, flavored by the grief. This pain
I savor, so intense yet brief, free rein.