Artist's way

(dedicated to Anahita Hamidi)

The young woman found herself floating

in a small dinghy some miles from shore—

oars gone, rudder broken,

a wild cloud on the horizon,

the bag of cookies almost empty—

I’ll write, she said.  That’s what I’ll do. 

And with some blue left in the sky, a bit of algae,

some heart’s blood and her imagination

she wrote and wrote. 

Fish began gathering around the boat

to discuss the work amongst themselves. 

Everyone’s a critic, she said.

I wonder what happened

to the young woman in the dinghy— 

and if the fish were improved

by reading such a searing work— 

and if the storm ever made it to shore

in the face of such a life?

                              Rhonda Palmer