To be emancipated from the weight
Of chronic, carping doubts has been a gift
I've dared to lavish on myself of late,
And doing so, I find my spirits lift
To higher, quiet airs where dream and deed
Are lighter, easier, less full of ache
And labored gasping. Burdened with the need
To know the fruits my many efforts make,
I've been much like the man who is a slave
To every watch-tick, every sudden gust
Of circumstance. With carriage taut and grave,
I've tramped my way along a road of dust.
But now it seems the hard and foolish way:
Far better to press on fearless, day to day.
George Chadderdon © 2003