My inner poet has gone missing. I know she is still close by. On occasion, she pops in through the door unannounced and joins in the conversation at the most surprising moments. Or I'll hear her clear her throat from another room in the inner recesses of my thoughts. She wants to speak but withdraws, shrinks back behind her well designed utilitarian cover. There is safety in usefulness. In ink stained hands hidden under kitchen gloves.
Perhaps the bold reappearance of Spring has made her shy. His masterpieces mesmerize and steal the show, as they should. But, she forgets. She, too, is His work.
So, today I will not force, cajole, or shame her out of hiding but will let her simply be until the warmth of the Son's rays melts her fear away and gently awakens her own Spring emergence, His handiwork.