The Attic Ink

​I sit among the rafters, where the dust motes dance in light, Tracing lines of longing in the middle of the night. I remember how she said it, with a spirit fierce and wild: "I’m not a poet, I’m just a girl,"—the restless, wayward child. ​But I am a poet, though my verses limp and lean, Not like the golden stanzas of the giants I have seen. I haven't "the genius" that Jo chased through the rain, Just a heart that spills its ink to ease a quiet kind of pain. ​"I’ve got the key to my castle in the air," she used to say, But my castle’s built of paper, and the stones are turning gray. I am not as good as they were—the ones who shook the world, Whose every word was fire, whose every flag unfurled. ​I’m just a girl with ink-stained hands, and stories left to tell, Trying to "be worthy of the things I love" as well. Maybe I’m not a master, maybe I’m not the best, But like Jo, I’ll keep on writing, and let my spirit do the rest. ​For even if my poetry is simple, plain, and small, "I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship"— Through it all.