I write from the smallest space—
Stripping details from salmon walls,
A little room near the magic cottage,
A studio and coffee cups in Bemidji Minnesota
And the park bench where the muse likes to visit.
From a single chair in the smallest space
the writing life is wide and wild,
Carousing the world for the tiny details
Of gloriously flawed, and ever hopeful lives.
Writers sit in solitary rooms
And choose one word, and then another
Wrestling the spikes of humanity
And the softness of giving up,
Choosing words that string together
like the pearl necklace,
Around that long proud neck, extending
From one writer to the next
Trying, trying to tell the truth.
I’ve met writers this year:
Justin--the tekkie with the tender heart, traveling east
Sara-- the teacher teaching to learn.
Me—the optimist who loses moments
John Denver—who died flying empty, asking What does it take for a blind man to see that there’s more than just meets the eye?
Vanessa, who finds a hole to find herself
Jessie--whose words alone assure you this is a good good person
Mary Oliver—getting it right in the Provincelands.
Words that pop like a perfect tennis ball
Make the whole day worthwhile.
Astonishment. Integrity. Grace. Velocity.
Words that bridge,
From sorrow to senrendipity,
From fallen leaves to the first crack of spring.
Words that tell you in the wild wide world,
It’s all ok