Prepare for those who complain of the moon and blame 
the clouds for their soiled feet.
They stomp on eggshells with twinkling eyes, shatter
ice but drink their whiskey neat.

Don’t panic. Don’t slam the brakes. The speed of sound
inflates speech; for talk ain’t cheap.
Be honoured they chose you to test their mettle,
you as prey from the herd of sheep.

Don’t yell in gusts of their baritone winds. 
It’s can be a rudderless force.
Reserve your energy for prying open thoughts,
connecting to your source.

In truthful arrogance or in error, they throw down the
gauntlet. Thriving on bouts.
Listen. Attune your tone to gentle conviction.
Thank them for wrestling with your doubts.


B. Toner           May 2024