If you turn your head away from the pain
you can count the things around you now
that are good, the things you trust
that are goodness.
You can count the smell of wood,
the cat that jumps up lightly
to look out a window,
the sound of toast being eaten,
a layer of woven blanket on your legs
as you sit, safe, reading under a lamp
a book someone else spent hours and hours,
years, lifetimes writing and rewriting.
The story is pouring forth
from the fairies in their brain
whispering words in the beeswax candlelight
hidden in their attic room, protected,
full of imagination.
Dreams flickering like ancient shadows
on unfinished rafters, roofbeams
with a few spider’s webs
to catch the pests and bloodsucking bugs.
And then, when the story is finished,
when all the words are gone,
a promise of hot cocoa and bed.