Yet I Still Write

Sitting on an old, mossy tree stump

I whimsically call The Poet’s Chair,

I wonder, Why do I write?

I throw and skip my words

across many a smooth page

like pebbles cast to dance

across a placid pond

then watch them swiftly fall

from sight, down, down

to where the lost and forgotten

things rest on the bottom.

I offer my words humbly

like hard-earned money shared

on a collection plate passed

among those with much more or less,

then watch it all disappear.

I give my words to comfort, express,

counsel, encourage, inspire…

knowing full well that silence

and the feeling of embrace

speak what words can’t touch.

In the highest joys felt,

words always fall short.

In the deepest of sorrows,

all words seem hollow.

In the most profound and sacred

experiences, all words are left behind.

My words are unskilled, unpolished,

inefficient, ineffective, yet still

I write and write and write.

February 4, 2023

Shelley Audrey Wilson

Victoria, BC