The Long Road
Poets trace their paths in spirals
wide as the sky, yet small as a sigh.
They dream in color, live in whispers,
and break stagnation’s brittle walls
by feeling everything.
What roads? Not straight, but winding
each turn a question.
What skies? Not fixed, but fluid
clouds rewriting their names.
They travel inward,
growing roots in their own shadows,
yet reaching for the light.
Do not post only the gold.
The tarnish tells the truer story.
Do not erase the sorrow
it carves the hollows
where joy will pool.
The road is not easy.
Doubt clings like mist on the mountain,
and frustration howls
a wild, necessary wind.
When do I ascend? you ask.
Perhaps when you stop counting time
and start naming the stars.
The purpose? To knead grief
into bread for the journey.
To let disappointment season you
like salt in the sea.
The hope? It hides in plain sight
in the sun’s stubborn return,
the moon’s quiet counsel,
the trees humming hymns
older than regret.
Yes, despair visits,
a guest who overstays
but never learns the locks.
Then dawn comes,
pressing a cup of light
into your hands.
The flowers nod.
The breeze hums.
And your dreams,
like seeds,
remember how to rise.
We all have doubt; some days are harder than others. It’s easier said than done. Don’t give up, don’t give in, keeping moving forward one step at a time. Dorie Snow
Your writing is really comforting💗💗