Welcome To My Bed

What I think about when things begin to come together.

Dear self,

You are too hard on your work. You did not believe strongly enough that by creating you would find your way to what you wanted to say. Look at the list in your notebook--every concern, every abstract you set down to write a poem about later, you have written about by now, the first day of October. You are months ahead of your deadlines. You have so much in your hands left to say. This is a good place to be. Stand in the rain today, drop your umbrella, sing to the street. The world is falling open now like the last flowers of Indian summer. There are big plans around the corner, the dearest of friends waiting in New Jersey for you to say yes to coming home to each other. You are successful, you are loved, you are loud and proud and ready to do ever bigger and better things with your brain, body and voice.

Last year, close to this time, a conversation in Central Square gave you the prompt that plagued you then but has turned into your mantra--what are your convictions? Keep answering, every day, in everything you do. Be reckless. It is the only way to be right.