Crossroads

I flip through the winners from past years and I think

How strange it is to be at this crossroads

How odd to read this and see, just there

The concept of “I don’t write that well, but I could; give it a year,”

When before it was

“I can’t,”

And

“I could never,”

But growth always demands loss, a price

Like a lover asking how badly you want it before they touch you 

Hours spiraling away while my fingers tap type type 

Evenings lost to pages; thoughts, dreams haunted by conversations

That only happened inside of them, never out loud

And I am willing, happy to give it,

A mother telling her children they can have the last piece

A doctor calling the time of death

A soothing stone monument under a rustling oak tree

Sacrifice, love, time, eternity

Sara Myriad