I reach inside the soft
bag of scrabble letters,
hoping to resurrect my
mother.
She often played herself
and usually won.

I reach inside the softness
of my emotional underbelly
to caress the wounded healer
I have become.
Bought with a price and not
even a seven letter word
to show for it.

I reach into the light
that is not mine
and pull out a stellar ray
of brilliance on loan
to me or any other
writer hoping for
a flash in the pan.

I now arrange the
letters of this poem
just to reveal the
scarcity of God
when you need Him
the most.
The only word I can make
is “Help.”

Vicki Woodyard