L.L. Barkat prompted us, invited us to share the 'place where we write'. It has been fun to picture in my mind's eye the place where my writerly friends do their creative best. Join in!
Loverby built a garden shed
where in seclusion and quietness
creations written or handcrafted
could be birthed. I tried. They couldn't
stand my isolation or maybe they were
curious, so comes the knock, knock, knocking
and peering in the window part. In
truth, I was lonely for them too. The thrum
of family life was the missing fuel. Now,
scattered thoughts and fragmented pieces
of stories get written down by a window
in the middle of the mess. Center of life.
I look out upon sassy squirrels twitching
their tails at me while they steal unripe pears and eat them
defiantly. Sweetpeas, hops, kiwi, roses, lilies,
lupines, currants, hostas, ferns, evening primrose,
rhodies, hydrangeas, roses, and astilbe keep me
dreamy as I notice them change
in season and out. Being deliciously distracted is
part and parcel of it all.
I have a severe paper addiction. My journals are
a telling trail of the day. Grocery lists and guest
lists. Books and movies recommended to find.
People to look up and connect with. Deep thoughts
or silly. Scraps of paper everywhere to be lost and
Tears on the page or coffee splashed on the keyboard.
Typing is easier than pen in hand, although pen on paper
satisfies a craving. Pencil is to pen what warm
scone is to cracker. Comforting soft lead has a
Birds having their morning toilette, vigorous
in their uninhibited 'joy de vivre' lure me out
and away from the desk inside to the swing outside.
My mind continues without a tool to story the lines
Sometimes my laptop is my bedmate both early
late. Loverby doesn't mind three in the bed.
Words and warm comforters go together.
Now you know.