Yes, it’s been too long. I apologize. I could put up several excuses, I’m sure, but those don’t matter. No one is keeping score, no one is tallying the misses, no one is counting it against me; save me, most likely.
I have, in fact, been trying to write. I’m going to a writers conference in Redding, CA in a couple of weeks, and there’s a writing contest. I’ve banged and whacked out a first draft, and it’s due this Friday. But that’s not the point. The point is to write. The sword is rusty, and my arm is tired and out of shape.
But. The point is to write. And so I do.
I pine for what was once so grand
And now has fallen in disrepair
Strive and work with fading might
I press on for what once stood
At times I feel the pen’s deep burn
And think I’ve come back home
But when I’ve took up pen to write
I find no words, just ling’ring want
Perhaps it’s like the growing babe
And one day I’ll stand and walk
For now, alas, I struggle on
Fumbling, struggling, to even crawl
Oh! I’ve felt the wind a’blow
Sails full, oceans glad
Now I set my frail gaze
And aim toward horizon’s edge.