Twelve

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.