On Managing Critics

I was replaying the cold wind of a recent criticism and I needed a walk. There was no time, so I wrote!

I’m on my way out of a rich furrow of dirt in a plowed field.
Shinny, new and sparkly green and gold. Dewy with those crystal colors on the grass tips.
Smell! Oh my. I move out into the sun and the rain. Fresh, clean newly turned earth. I sleep here at night, and stay awake too with the moon, and reach up for the essence of stars. My feet and all are planted in the earth, but that doesn’t mean I cannot jump from row to row, and also feel the dry dust. But it doesn’t touch my toes that reach deep into the waters of life.
I sing, I soar, I swim, and I do not sink very far anymore.