Loaded mini vans.
Summer sun heats up the beach
Bare feet running fast.

Plunging down a hole,
of grief and total despair.
Faith breaks my fall.

Tears redden my eyes.
My face is a storybook.
Narrated by grief.

I should know by now.
I cry, you walk out the door,
and I'm left to blame.

Once I could find my way.
It was clear to see.
Now it lies obstructed,
by fear of what will be.
There must be a way around,
where a new path comes into view.
I am determined to find it.
My optimism brand new.
It will be a challenge.
A test by God above.
I am up to the task.
I know it's done with love.

You are a beacon.
Helping me to find my way.
You are my mainstay.

My Writer's and Artist's Year Book
knows me well.
It knows what I want to write
and where I want to send it.

So why - oh why -
does it stay obstinately closed
as I sit  and wait
for inspiration ...?