The Prodigal Daughter
Thanks to a class offered by a
soft spoken South American professor
who preaches the gospel of creativity
I am whole again.
Seeking the power of steel beams and girders
I had tossed my Muse (my dearest friend) into the sea.
I needed muscle
not watercolor dreams leading nowhere.
I learned to weld and solder
to read blueprints and gauge distances
to hammer and sweat in the sun
until mine was as big as his.
I forgot how to cry.
Finally one say in class (for three credits)
I walked alone across the bridge that
I had built with my own two hands and
found my Muse waiting there
like an indulgent mother
for me to call her name.
Now words and colors and images
leap and dance before my eyes
and I paint golden wildflowers on my bridge
and I sing purple poems
and my tears fall freely now
because I have come home again,
It is indeed a form of prayer.
by Pyschscribe copyright 2008