The pre-dawn chill, a silent gray, Another shift to start the day. The scrubs are clean, a shield of blue, To hide the tired that seeps right through. A practiced breath outside the door, And then she walks the floor once more.

The calls begin, a frantic choir Of urgent need and rising fire. A symphony of pump and beep, While promises are hers to keep. Pulled between a dozen rooms, Dispelling shadows, chasing glooms.

She wears a smile, a steady mask, For every single, heavy task. She holds the hands that grip with fear, And dries the unacknowledged tear. She takes the weight they cannot bear, And leaves her own heart standing there.

Some days the tide is just too high, Beneath a cold, fluorescent sky. A hollow ache behind her eyes, Lost in the storm of goodbyes. A thread of hope is all she holds, In stories that will not be told.

The hours end, she drives away, Carrying the ghosts of the day. Her own cup empty, drained, and worn, But she'll be back tomorrow morn. Because the calling's buried deep, With silent promises to keep.

by Deanna LaForce RN