This is a poem I wrote after a day that felt like a month that can’t be found on a calendar; a day that makes you want to become a skilled magician so you can slight-of-the-hand-blink-of-the-eye-quick-vanish without so much as reflection from a dirty mirror or a wisp of lingering smoke. . .

But here’s the best thing about day’s that feel like months not found on any calendars:

THEY END

and what they take from you
compares not what they gift you:

S T R E N G T H

A detour
sometimes masks itself as a
short cut
and always something more than just another
Way

The detour?
Compassion
The Short cut?
Giving it
The Way?
More often than you have. . .

Talk about a wild ride on a dark night
(on a road that seemingly doesn’t exist)

Giddy Up