When that you have worked for
Cried for, fought for, for four years
Suddenly fits in the palm of your hand
You can touch it, caress it—the years flash by your eyes.
When doubt had shrouded the midnight oil
Fear had slept with you at night
Words had spelled desires on whiteness
With no end in sight, no reward
Only a beating heart, images no one else could see
Only an idea, a trembling hope
Something that didn’t exist
Kept you up all night
No bold promises, no guarantee of daylight
Words formed, un-formed undyingly
Yet you had risen each morning, gotten on your feet
And spelled another one of those dreamy but wretched words
And then what was in the mind
Bottled up and tear jerking dream
Spilled over to touch and turn a page
Today was that kind of day
I opened my proof of my first book
Curling into a ball and pressing its sheets
A dream four years in the making
Dropped from my eyelids into my hands.
