what if
this desk
– this cherry wood
never meant to be
a desk, desk –
rather than seeing
a gray-skied, gray-mood
descent into a
self-absorbed
self-pitying
brood?

what if instead
this small red-brown surface
is actually rich, loamy
bottom land where
every idea, every imagining
I will ever need rests
waiting to push bright
new tendrils to the surface?

what if every joy and
wish and wonder
and even slippery
sparkling hope
are already gestating
right here under my hands
tucked among the
dents and water rings
of this woodgrain
fertile ground?

what if it’s as easy
– and as hard
as believing?

what if the way to
ground truth myself
is as simple as
persistently arriving
at this quiet corner
offering up my trust
and my patience
my presence and my hands
to write the waiting words?

what if?