I’m mostly ready now, yet not entirely.
Sufficient, some might say.

Seemingly always ready. Nine shades of ready.

Some days my ready feels like waves of heat, so far always cooling too soon.

My ready is still full of dimples and edges.

Ready’s true nature, I wonder what’s becoming of it?

I want ready to be clear, to rise like the sphere of the sun clarifying all my tomorrows.

Is it alright to feel this way?

Sometimes my faith in ready comes only from pure grace.  It waivers and flounders, it lives and dies.
I’m ready to do something, but my something must not be ready.

Ready never comes, I come ready.