Was this the last word?
the final book?
or just the middle of a long stream
a torrent of thoughts, dreams and words
whole books
that must burst forth?
We learn to wait
as writers
learn to listen
as if the wind
some bird
or a chorus of sirens will suddenly
whisper
or shout
an answer
command our attention
drive us to pen
pencil
or keyboard
There is less magic
than insistence
no call of the wild
no dance of the muse
no call to arms
just a rumbling
as if the earth is impatient
and a new book
or perhaps three
now demand my time
my mind
my life
There is peace
in this surrender
in writing what must be writ
a calling that is insistent
demanding
divine |