Never one to shirk the “I” in writing,

Defiance arises in joy

When I blog or lyricize.

Standing up to be noticed in the weeds.

 

Yet on the widow’s walk I found

There was no “I,” no stubborn resolve,

But a twisting, faltering trail.

Was last fork I took  the better one?

 

Should I chart a course for the mountains or

Follow the unpredictable stream, 

Winding away

Along a half-hearted path?

 

Pronouncing “we” bolstered my faith.

Plotting destinations no longer fazed me;

Only the precious present mattered;

A shared journey already was a destination.

 

I am glad to say “We are not certain,”

“Our path is under construction.”

We have become a ruling authority.

Meandering, we seem to know more than we say.

 

My sentences brighten with the first person plural.

Unbridled and confident,

The vocal “I” loves the resonant “we,”

As we-ander in plural anticipation.