Sometimes I paint, or read, or sit quietly on the front porch steps.
Sometimes I go to church, sing a hymn.
Sometimes I scatter bones and read tarot.
Sometimes I suffer alone, sometimes it seeps through the cracks for others to feel.
I try to be good, but there is waywardness near to the surface.
I love my people and my creatures, and I do my best to show it.
Sometimes I write a peom, do the dishes, stay up too late for fear of dreaming.
And sometimes I hide.