“What if …?”
And the catasrophizing begins. The breaks fail. The school finds out I’m a fraud. The well of inspiration dries. The missles launch as the last potable water evaporates. Or the inevitable destiny to live ’til I die in a box on skid row arrives. O, how the anxious mind creates with relentless cunning the doomsday scenarios.
Where are the other kinds of “What if…”? I write the novel that wins the pulizer or the nobel. I write my way to early retirement. I travel the world over earning royalties or pension payments. I perform at the Dodge Poetry Festival. The missles leave their silos on flatbed trucks, header for decommision sites, as the next rain refills low resevoirs. We live simply, and simply live. Frank begins his adult life and we enjoy our golden years.
A breath away. A chosen paradigm to embrace. Is not “what if” the spark for that fire called imagination? And we must tend every fire with care, lest what warms and brightens us consumes us.
trembling leaf
all of the blank pages
as yet unwritten
for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ What if . . . ? (posted by Susan)
Frank J. Tassone 
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