I don’t know what to write.
I’m sure it has all dried up once and for all:
no more ideas, no more words, no more inspiration –
because I’ve already used far too many words in chapters and letters and emails this week.
My words are spent. And so am I.
And then the fat breeze wedges its way through the narrow opening of my office window and suddenly I am renewed.
I look toward the location from which I feel sure the breeze has come and,
instead of finding some answer about the wind,
my eyes hit the wall of “yellow-green”
(an actual color according to Crayola) and
I become somebody else.
I become somebody brand new and flourishing in the late spring breeze.
I turn my face to catch that breeze, to see if the breath of out there can become the breath of in here.
And it works.
My plans got scattered around and dislodged yesterday:
the Internet was inexplicably out for more than a couple of hours just after dawn;
I encountered a stranger passed out in her SUV near the bottom of our driveway – her vehicle
still running and in gear, no emergency brake in use, her sleeping foot on the brake pedal,
her head flopped like a rag doll atop her steering wheel – and it frightened me because I
didn’t know the origin of her unconsciousness or the state of her wellbeing, and I helped
her;
the focal point of all my nonwork time over the past few weeks has fledged the nest, or been
consumed by a predator: both are plausible options
Into this window of my home, of my heart, of my life
that fat breeze arrives;
it just keeps on coming, and coming, and
falling into my waiting arms like a beloved friend.
The scatterings of my day get sewn back together.
Glued. Collaged. Woven.
The birds keep flying into view and saying, “Look at me. Be intrigued. Learn and get inspired.”
And I see that the words have arrived too.
They are not all gone, they still flow and curl and spiral into patterns that become a more complete story.
They have wings, and they take flight.
