THE COUNTERTOPS are cold
and the dishes brought out of the cupboard, too,
but the patch of woven color helps warm.
I go to make oatmeal,
but am sidelined
by thoughts of eggs and English muffins
and before you know it
they are out of the pan,
out of the toaster,
on the plate,
please pass the butter.
I make no apologies for this indulgence only 3 days into a new year.
* * *
I RECEIVE IN THE MAIL these words:
“I loved your entire letter of the 12th, the WHOLE thing!”
and I know which one is meant
without looking it up on my computer.
It’s the one I had so much fun writing.
A reader can tell,
I learned long ago,
if the writer is interested or not.
I had said,
the day I mailed it,
“Gee, I had fun writing that one!”
I didn’t know why.
I wasn’t trying to say anything in particular,
make a point.
I was just telling about what was going on here at the moment.
“THIS is how fiction writers must feel,”
“just telling a story for the sake of telling it.”
I wrote for no purpose
and both of us enjoyed it,
What more can I ask for?
* * *
THE OTHER NIGHT I WATCHED the movie “Miss Potter”
and it starts with these words:
“There’s something delicious about writing those first few words of a story.
You can never quite tell where they will take you.
Mine took me here, where I belong.”
It’s a good thing to be where we belong
instead of always striving to be elsewhere
and missing what’s here.
The warm woven colors, for example.
* * *
The countertops this morning are cold
and the dishes brought out of the cupboard, too.
They remind me of the past year,
how most every thought came from the cupboard cold.
But I’ve not been left alone.
Looking at my placemat,
I think of how those,
near and far,
and unaware of each other,
each as a single thread,
and were woven together
as a cushion
upon which I could set my thoughts
just as they were, no pretense.
Credit goes to the One who weaves.
Had it not been cold, I may not have noticed.