I never like to fill my posts
with tales of woe. We all have those,
and most are worse than mine. It feels
like telling all of you to marvel
that weeds have sprouted in my garden
when your house, maybe, just burned down.
And yet, sometimes, some times like these,
I start to think I ought to say what’s kept
me silent more days than I speak.
So, here’s the problem: two weeks in
the hospital – no, no, not me,
my husband’s father’s sick. Today,
a gift: he hasn’t gotten worse.
And so, today, I write.
(Poetry 201: Write a poem containing a simile and the word “gift”; make an acrostic with the first letters of the lines, which I haven’t done.
But Dad really is hospitalized, and it’s difficult for everyone.)