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
