Reaper

A day stretches out ahead of you: sunny, solitary, free. A word processor lies at your fingertips, quiet, waiting. How you have longed for this moment. You sit in it for a minute, let the panic of inactivity and parched bank accounts twirl around you, it is November so the panic almost wins.

But a small tree grows inside your chest. It twists and turns and sprouts little shoots of hope and stories worth telling, it beats persistently in  your veins and rustles along your nerve endings. It looks frail still. You vow to water it until it grows stronger than your every fear.