Thought Wheel

From the mind of Ann Chiappetta

A Poem

| Filed under Poem

In those dark moments
When eyesight doesn’t matter
Where light burns and stars stay undiscovered

The grip of the handle
Eases the panic like a mother’s hand
Before the fear rises
Warm nose finds the way down the hall, up the stairs, into the store

Like the familiar sounds of morning
The light click of toenails on tile reassures
I grip the handle and follow
the soft jingle of leather and brass
and faint canine scent
conveys that
in those darkest moments
I am not alone.

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