“With heart at the ready, point the barrel of your best intentions at the bowl-open belly of the sky. This is it. This breath whistling its way through your lungs. These words that cut themselves over your teeth because to be born carries a hurt of its own. These hands that open and close with grace you grasp and let go. Don’t let Monday’s orchards of grief steal Sunday’s gardens waiting to bloom. It ain’t a cake-walk, but it ain’t no gamble either, so pick yourself up for them songbirds. Just get you some big-chested, know how, pep-in-your-step, ‘fore you call it quits. Around these parts, gumption don’t work for free. It waits on you to make the first move, then rains down heavy like the flood.”
