I keep writing these things
and maybe one day 
there will be a piece of gold.
Like a miner with a pan, 
I keep coming to the river,
sifting rocks, hunched over.
It is lonely work.

Will I ever strike it rich? 
Am I asking the wrong question? 
Because really, the treasure
is the doing. The daily
coming to the river, doing
the work. Even if nothing
amazing appears, I’ve put
in the time, I’ve gotten the
practice. 
Writing is a skill, after all.
Being born into the language 
is no excuse for not
practicing it