Sometimes you have to save them from the drain. The pillowcase. The pebbles in the road. Because you never know when the words are going to come. In the shower. Just before sleep. Out for a walk. I don’t always get there in time to save them all. There is a famous story of a poet running from the working fields, trying to get back to the house in time to capture the magic. Secure the poem. Knowing that it would find another heart, another pen to go through if she didn’t get there in time.

And so it is with muddy shoes, wordless, I turn to the canvas. And I paint. Magic comes in so many forms, if we are willing to adapt. To change. To grow. Because love is merciful. Even at the times when you are exhausted, running after it from a field so far, it offers options. Turn to the canvas, it says. To the book. To the kitchen. The table. The craft. The persons behind you. Those lost. Running beside you. Also waiting. Because if we expect from it — this art of love — to indeed be merciful, to be there for us, how can we possibly not do the same?

I chase it myself. I know. But for a moment these words are caught in the hope that I will do better. Be better. I, we, must get there in time.