Today you take pen in hand.
You write one page
Of the history of your life.
No one writes it for you
Because they cannot.

You inscribe its heights, its depths,
It’s raw and common glory.
No one knows, yet, how it will read.
So much is in your hands.
Tomorrow, when this page is read,
Remarks will be made:
“Never before and never again
Shall such a day be played out
Or its impact so firmly pressed
Into the seen and unseen
Composition of all things.”

It’s a brick in the building of your life.
A landmark and a lighthouse
A foothold, a comfort, a lesson, a warning
A shaft of blazing inspiration
To travelers wondering nearby
Looking for a good way through.

The sovereign Creator gives you the life,
The pen, the hand, the will
To scribble, scratch and doodle,
To scrawl, to pen, to speak
In breathing, pulsing prose
To be and do as you alone determine.
To unite with the spirit of your choosing
And give it infinite expression.

Write on, O Pilgrim. Write well.
For many eyes are reading.
And no one writes like you.

rhw