// I get lost at least once a day
As I circle the park,
Leaves falling around me,
Catching in my hair.
I look up and praise God for the blue
and His bigness.
Me? I am small. I know it
For I am fearfully,
Yet, I walk the same paved path,
Sometimes twice, when I’m really feeling
Of who I am,
Where I am going.
Small is a gift.
So is big.
As is wandering
But sitting down and making?
Here I feel my fragility,
Face it head on,
Bump into a table,
A vase falls,
I try to catch it before I shatter
All over the hallway.
What a bunch of pieces!
And writing is creating,
Sometimes like me with Gorilla glue
Today I see Shel’s words
On a table:
“Come in!” you lost ones.
You writers, liars, and thieves. //
You wanderers, dreamers, and hopeless hope-ers,
Come in—feel warmth of apple pies
Of laughter on back porch at ten p.m.
Of shared messes of motherhood and making.
The kind that knows lost is imply looking
For belonging, home, and hope.
Come in! Come in!
When you go, do for the lost
What’s been done for you.
Again and again.
Our circling will straighten.
Our fragments will gleam in lamplight.
Where do you find creative support and inspiration?
This poem is part of the Five Minute Friday community. Our one wordprompt is SUPPORT. (// indicates the start and stop of five minutes).
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