The Race

A friend once commented that if anyone dropped a lit match in Fio's house, it would go up in flames.  Yes, your Fiorella is the world's leading consumer of paper.  She has drawers, shoe boxes, cartons, bookshelves, and filing cabinets stuffed pell-mell full of everything she's ever written from grade school on. If she hadn't established this blog, she would have had yet another six years' cache of stories, poems, random thoughts, observations, and musical compositions waiting to catch fire. .

But now she's trying to get more organized.  First on the list is gathering together all her personally-oriented poems and hauling them off to Kinko's to make into a booklet or two--or three--or fifty.  Here's a sample titled "The Race."  Remember, Fiorella's novels are fiction, but her poems are true.

I stumble, I falter, I fail, I fall
Before the race is done
My heart, my joy, my life is in
The glory of the run

It's all in the effort.