Who else is waiting on news? I find when I am waiting I have wild swings between hope and hopelessness, between expectation and self-protection. It’s not easy to maintain a sense of detachment from the possibilities, is it? I am a dreamer and there is a part of me that wants to let my hope fly free, unclipped by the realities of the publishing industry. And then there is the other more practical, realistic part of me that knows there are some things you just can’t control.
For me, though, hope always wins out. It means that in the end I’m sometimes even more disappointed than I would have been if I hadn’t allowed myself to hope, but I think it’s better for my creativity. I don’t think my muse has a realistic bone in her body and she doesn’t like it much when I try to talk sense into her or try to reason with her about the truths of publishing. When I do, she just shuts up for a while. So, that leaves me vulnerable to disappointment. Can there be any other way?
Hope refuses to perch
as if she had arrived for only a visit,
like so many flitting wings
on the branches of a bloodwood tree,
weaving instead feathers from her breast
into the fabric of my soul.
Her fussing brings pain,
reminding me of a presence I’ve tried
to ignore, preferring instead
a familiar landscape of barren desert,
averting my eyes from the want within,
to grow as if shielded from sun, protected
from possibilities until they would
weigh my branches with promise.
But hope, feathered hope, is already here,
nestled so sweetly for laying,
and I await with the pain