It doesn’t have to be right
It doesn’t have to be perfect
Or even good enough
You can share the darkest, deepest, most troublesome stuff
hidden deep in the bowels of your experience
And you may find other people can relate to it
appreciate it, empathise with it
And it doesn’t matter if they don’t
But even the worst idea
Can become the best idea
As a germ
as a seed
From the unknown darkness
The autumn of the soul
Where its wet, windy and dark
And maybe fearful of what’s coming
In the colder, darker times
We curl up not knowing what to do
Like little scared squirrels and hedgehogs
creating our nests, homes or burrows
What if we didn’t turn to the devices and screens to ingest
and take in more than we can digest
But instead we wrote, created dance, sung made poetry, and made love
Until the stars no longer shine in the sky
Or go to sleep until the sun rises on a new day
Perhaps even colder than the previous
But yet we are alive
We know this day is worth living
And giving to
As we have been given life
And this is precious in itself