DRY CRIK Journal

The same naked trek into first light
as you sleep, my sound of heel upon
a wooden floor for fresh shirt and socks –

all the possibilities of a day’s work align
with the necessity of trying to stay ahead
of trouble, breaking trail for tomorrow.

We paint by day, small strokes now, details
that can be washed away in a heartbeat,
in a storm, in the unlikely – despite the joy

of being able. How I wish I’d known
when I was young and hard that this
was it – that we could make it true.