Twelve
One dozen
seven men
five women
signed up
to take my
writing class
to learn
what I know
to stimulate their
creative juices
to stir up
concoct
bring into existence
something which
now
only resides
in their sub-conscious
a pipe dream
an idea
a passion
buried
beneath a
mountain
of can not
purple haze
and self-doubt.
Ideas that need
to be nurtured
like baby sprouts
stretching
up towards the light
flexing newly discovered muscles
feeling what used to be buried
testing the temperature of their environment
opening up
allowing the rain
to absorb
their troubled membranes
and then trickle down
off their backs
onto the moist soil
enriched by
fresh perspectives
Wounded and asking for help
transplanted for now
and permitted
the freedom to grow and change
to open doors
build bridges
and make new interdependent links
bringing new experiences
to their individual realms
into their once
limited beds of possibility.
Twelve
a number that conjures up
a jury
of my peers
who but by the grace
of some higher power
would go I
The Way
uncertain
the journey just beginning
the conversion
hopefully
not, all mine.
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