Drifting through the fog,
I cannot see my shadow.
I lower the anchor and
wait for the hovering mist
to change to cloudy skies.
A porpoise splashes by,
diverting me from
the graphite in my hand,
the words I write the means
by which I earn my coin.
The slate drops, breaking into
pebble-sized pieces,
no better than a heap of ash
or long-dead fossil.
A dove lights at my side, reminding me
smoke from adversity’s fire
refines my ore to silver
I need not fear.
With every iron strike
I turn to flint,
a strong fortress
in the Lord.
Darlene Franklin
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Darlene Franklin and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.