Why I Write at All

Why I Write at All

(“Therefore, your gates shall be open continually; they shall not be shut day nor night.” Isaiah 60:11a)

This is a day I ask myself why I write at all.
Why I pushed my body out of bed when the
weight of pain
nailed me to the mattress.
I turn my face to the wall,
feel myself shrinking,
feel the rusty gates closing on
my weary soul.

If you were sitting beside me
you would see the sun shining
and wonder how, on a day like this,
I could feel so small, so full of gravity,
so locked into nothing at all.

And if you asked, I could not explain why
my feet are raw from gravel,
my hands bent from electricity,
my thoughts packed with melancholy,
my eyes scratched from tears below freezing.

Surely God would rescue
me from the doldrums
(now that storms rarely crash over my bow)
and fill my sails once more.

Yesterday as I turned out the lights and
went to lock the door before sleeping,
I found it locked already.

I had not left the house all day.