Why I Write.

I. I write for the girl I was in seventh grade.

Slender, shy and utterly convinced

the worst thing that could ever happen to me

was blushing when the boy down the street

asked me to dance.

II. I write for my Mom.

The lilac, steel gray woman who throws her hands up

and asks God what to do 

with her "wild, bohemian" child. 

I write for the love she's given me

when I insist on making my own ugly way.

III. I write for redemption.

For future grace and steadfastness.

There is life in death 

and faithfulness in destruction, 

and I know these things full well.

IV. I write for the first boy I ever loved.

Heart map reader and secret keeper.

I know atoms are repelled by what holds them together

and gravity looks remarkably like

the first time anyone ever kisses you at a stoplight. 

V. I write for Job.

Aching and hurting and still:

"Should we take the good from God

and not the bad?"

VI. I write for me.

Tender, tangled heart and utterly convinced

words on paper 

can move mountains.