roaring, white water
churns with the golden soil
of my fears
Copyright 2019 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes: Snowflakes are sparse this year, but the cold has seeped into my bones. The black ice got me as I left for work in the dark before Friday’s dawn. I’m stiff. And sore. And lamenting how much I took being able to move freely for granted. Sometimes everything I see becomes a metaphor for fear. The fear of falling. The fear of rejection. The fear of failure. But even if the roar is deafening, there is beauty in the passion of it, like the beauty of a waterfall.