Some days will drip in slow descent
along the creases of our skin;
they leave our inspiration clogged,
the texture of our labors thin.
Some days will coil with cobra-stealth,
attack when we are least prepared;
we cannot walk unscathed and yet
survival’s sweet – for we have dared!
Some days erect their wired barbs;
we struggle, bleed, admit we failed.
(And foolishly withdraw in shame –
as though our virtue was impaled.)
But ah, the days that string their pearls
across our shoulders, warmly rest
their sundrop auras…these we clasp
in awe, aware that we are blest.
© Laryalee Fraser