I wake early in the cold morning, with just the slightest hint of magic across my eyelids, like sensing the season's first snow fall before you look out the window. Step out into the quiet cabin, where what remains of my life sits immobile, a still life painting in the mountains. Here is the typewriter, with a half written poem in its jaws. Here is the piano, preparing for a wedding, piles of paper trying to make sense of your literary ambitions.
He summons you to work, and you cannot quite tell what's getting in your way, until the coffee sinks into your chest and reminds you of feelings long lost. You want to be writing, it whispers to you, the words are ready.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
You arrived at the doorstep
of everything you were hoping you would find
and all you have to do is walk through.
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