Getting a grip
on getting a grip. . .

but not letting slip
this too hard-earned skill
of letting go. . .

When is it time
to push or pull through,
and when
just to chill?

Then again,
when to muse?

And when to surrender?

When will I be done
with the singing
of hand-wringing song,
as I explore
how to find the best blend here?–

between offering it up
or turning it over
and
walking the walk
that remembers the prize
that I want,
of which
only I
can be giver,
on this dark weary trail
when the pep of the day
has sunk to the pace of a snail,
how to wisely apply
my strength
and my will,

where, though I can’t yet see,
around the next curve
we leave the time and the place
that enervates
and segue back to the upswing,
so full of verve
that, even from ashes,
it re-creates.