I’m not ready.
Most days, I feel I never will be.
Then there’s a glimmer.
A faint poke of hope.
I’m looking out.
From the side of a mountain.
I hear an echo of your voice.
An avalanche is upon me.
I’m not ready.
Most days, I fear I never will be.
Most Days – March 31, 2019
Published
DoRee MelNic 