Twenty years of faithhave led me here to this precipitous place, The very edge of my dream

If the wind shifts rightly I can close my eyes and savor its perfume

This dream of mine, a writer's life I was born to live but have yet to attain so I walk as a ghost in the scorching daylight one foot in each world, yet not fully an inhabitant of either

My refusal to relent is born of sheer stubbornness bred from generations of those who did it the hard way those who, I see in some curious way walked their hope with them, To the grave and then a bit beyond.