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Showing posts from July, 2016

Wordstream

The rain is sporadic, but the stream peeling off the roof is constant–an insistent pouring onto something plastic, not the comforting spattering of drops. It jars with my yearning for a certain type of rainsong. While the room warms up, I sit in beanie and overcoat, coming to grips with my space. The blue car in the old shed has not moved. Some days there is washing on the line. The Hills Hoist carousel has three pieces of baby clothing on it today, hanging, sopping, in the rain. One day there was a free-wheeling pink sheet, fresh and joyous. It sang like a flag. My room is my own. Unadorned. The desk has piles of books, some propped open on pages.  Topographical maps for placement, location, anchoring in space.   Significant letters: S for studio.   Turn the page. F for freelance.  I have been paid for my writing. I am out there in the world, selling my words. Making a mark as a writer of sorts. Feeling allowed to own this identity, this voice. Inhabiting that place