The Chosen, The Artist

It is not we who chose our trade

But our trades that have chosen us;

We, the writers, musicians, painters,

Gardeners, we who harness life’s song

Like a gift or a curse,

We who feel the heart on our sleeves pulsating,

We, who once felt burdened

And now feel enlightened,

Lucky even,

By how intensely the mundane speaks,

To how artfully we scooped up those tears

And bottled them like fine wine

In colored bottles, on a shelf within reach

Prized as the product of our souls

Like each moment of our lives

That we cannot

possibly keep all to ourselves

Resole Yourself

I stand strong, comforted, powerful;

wearing my favorite pair of cowboy boots,

the leather just worn enough,

the stitching

is nestled aptly light against dark

like word scrawled in a diary,

retelling the adventures of where they’ve been,

in these boots I can look anyone in the eye

without fear of them seeing too deeply,

I treasure every wrinkle of their wear,

as I treasure every wrinkle on my brow

their character defines strife, happiness, indecision

etched like the creamy white loops of stitching

 on leather Raven’s black,

dusty as if just bathed in a pond,

thank God I can step into them,

and feel all that is missing;

I treasure them more

each time I pull them on;

contented knowing that

I can resole a pair of boots

but the moment I avoid your eye

the tales of my own lustre

chance fading;

and I cannot be resoled