I made a gift for my dear friend
tied with a big red bow.
My offering was a labored one
and to his house--I'd go.
The day was sprayed with roses,
and wind was at my back,
I traveled up, and up, and up,
never looking back.
"My friend will love this gift," I said,
and up the narrow path, I tread.
I came to the house upon the hill;
it was deathly still and quiet.
I thought to knock and softly speak,
so as not to cause a riot.
The door was opened, and there he stood,
the one with whom I shared
my gift of inspiration,
thinking that he cared.
He looked and said, "please, go away!
Only a perfect gift this day."
"My gift is perfect," I replied,
and penned with soul and heart!"
He slapped it down and said, "go now,"
his words a flaming dart.
I picked it up and brushed it off
and headed down the hill.
The pain was overwhelming,
I thought I'd taken ill.
Then I happened on a man
with smiling eyes and face.
"What is that inside your hands?
A gift of love's pure grace?"
"Why yes, it is, my dear new friend,
would you like to see?
I wrote upon these pages
the very heart of me."
It was that day with my new friend
that I began to write again.
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Author Notes
A rejected gift is very painful, especially when it's our heart and soul poured out on paper. I remember this when I review and give critiques. Many writers quit and give up because of discouragement. Today, I decided to keep writing, regardless. I hope you do too, dear readers.
Art: "Night Flowers" by cleo85 on FanArtReview.com
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