Like a starry-eyed girl dreaming of Hollywood
Only to grow into a tourist-town singer.
Or like budding flowers on the ground of a wood
Concealed below swirls, when fog chooses to linger.
Or like a rider on an endless nighttime train,
Enduring the stirrings of cold, callous glares.
Or like wheat seeds blown across the vast, endless plain
Sinking in the soil, concealed and waiting there.
Yearning to earn the right to burst into the light:
The spotlight, the sunlight–yelling, “I’m free and I’m known!”
The vindication of print, to be seen outright,
Not hidden in nooks, but to be–finally–shown.
But until that time, they wait like quiet strangers
In a shadowed room, lit by a single bulb’s shine.
They will sit alone, away from any danger,
Far too timid to leave the lonely waiting line.
Copyright Sarah Davidson 2020