The writing thing, the poetry journey,
an insistent yearning, a shadowy itch,
demanding your response.
“Just get your feet wet,” they said.
“Come on in, the water’s fine.” Their clichéd
implication that anyone can do it.
But getting just your feet wet,
when the undercurrent of
danger is omnipresent?
Danger of drowning, danger of losing
yourself in that madly rushing stream.
You tell yourself to find a way
to jump into the deep end, immerse yourself,
get used to the frigid water until
it’s warmed with your own warmth.
Stand toes poised at the edge of
the pool, ignore your cold, cold feet.
“Just get your feet wet,” they say, but
you know that won’t be enough.
Still catching up with Miz Quickly’s November feast of prompts. This poem is for Day Twelve, “Talk about Getting Your Feet Wet.”