Remember last quarter
when I straddled
the barbed wire fence?
With only my bleeding hands,
I clung on as the sky darkened,
the winds grew fierce.
The harder I fought for life,
the more I bled,
as if it wasn’t the work
or the effort, but the pain
I could endure that made a difference.
It feels distant, yet it’s now;
my fingers still scabbed,
I type, pretending
this is a new day—
the mountains and fields
are calling, the depths of the lake
beckon me to visit,
the last wild horse tamed,
flowers still bloom for us,
and I’m typing this for you.
Please accept this—
my progress report:
"I'll do better next year."
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