The Hand-Drawn Map

I made a statement in a reply to a fellow poet (the first two lines of this poem), that she thought would make a wonderful poem.  And perhaps it will someday.  For now….

Your poem is an excellent map,
hand-drawn by your heart.
The terrain of grief in contours laid;
each curling line a meter rise.
The closer together, the tougher the climb.
And yet, would one wish to climb to get over?
Certainly, too, it’s of no advantage to go around.
It’s the traversing, the traveling through the valley,
that allows the sojourner the bitter joy that comes
when vantage after vantage provides clarity of sight.

Here are the flowers of love that were planted;
here the seeds of laughter.
Behold the work of life-giving tears,
of persistence, and patience.

And, there in the ravine, the unforgiven word –
not yours or hers, perhaps,
but the eroding scar is plainly seen for all that.

Your poem is an excellent map,
hand-drawn by your heart.
Keep it neatly folded on the table at which you write.
Study it afresh when your muse has missed the bus.

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5 thoughts on “The Hand-Drawn Map

  1. Charley, I can’t tell you how much this means to me! With your permission, I’m going to copy this so I can return to it when my muse misses the bus 😉 Really beautiful, heartful and so very true. You really see people like only a poet can do.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Absolutely! I have spent a large portion of my life touring through people’s lives — previous vocations, earlier versions of who I am — so, if that makes me poetic, so much the better.

      Liked by 1 person

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