Waiting at the Largo library
I think of things to write -– they pass through my mind like a summer breeze—unexpected, refreshing, and gone. Now, I write and wonder in which direction they have floated—molecules of creativity. I wish I had a little vacuum to draw them back to re-form into sentence gems or story.
I try not to lust for:
Mountains and their majesty – but I do
For bare skin touching mine – but I do
For a paycheck for time spent writing – but I do
For my doorbell to ring, hands to reach out, these flowers are for you
Because your soul is beautiful
For a firm hand on my back guiding me in a Rumba
For a waterfall under which I’d stand
Laughing and singing – but I do
For money in my pocket for a ticket to hear a symphony
But I do
Now the parking lot fills, a line forms at the library door . . . it lifts my heart to see so many waiting for the doors of learning to swing wide open—to read the words of writers—early on a Monday morning in January.