A Gray Day

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