Shape shifting into that wolf he used to be, or even the lion made of fire and stone, produced nothing more than comical lyrics and dreams of hunting with dull knives instead of that line, that phrase he had called forth, the one on the tip of his tongue, he could almost taste it….
he refused the temptation to allow despair to take him down, to allow the lancing of his pain, the calling out of anguish using poetry as way of defeating. No.
His muse must live…..but he refused to share her nakedness, her bare soul, the broken body from chemo and cancer, the legs he adored now whittled down, he would not go there, if he did he would not live there. Crushed.
God spoke and he listened. The warm embrace of nature began with a soft sun…..melting the ice. And rain, one of those beautiful life giving rains. His arm. A pen on paper.
And life began again, somehow. Spring.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
Note: This is fiction. My wife is taking chemo but we are ok.