It is a wild and
lonely heart
that hands off
the pages,
wrapped neatly
and placed in
an expensive bag,
the priceless work
has many hours
of sweat embedded,
toil and anguish,
laughter and
ritual of recall,
all of it there
between the lines
of a story that
has taken on
such a life
of its own,
you query me
over and over,
from where
did this come,
and after a year
of digging through
the remains of
my history,
my mother
my father
I must say
that the seed
of any tale
must begin
here, inside
given like
a gene,
the memories
taken from
birth, what
are they worth
but to pass
on in romantic
the secrets from
long ago have
been revealed
by chance
and I sift
through the
rubble of
my existence,
the marshmallows
and the lemons, so
to speak,
and while I weep
at times,
for the most
part it is
a fabulous
the burst of
a tender shoot
meant to grow,
And in so doing,
scales the wall
of the outer world
where you all
I forgive…


©J.W.WINSLOW 6/1/12