Lassoing thoughts, figuring out what to keep
What to release
The writing process, even the phrase
Taunts. “As if,” my own voice echoes
If no one is there to read, is it still a story?
Because some things are too beautiful
Not to share.
Summer will always be
The cool of the garden hose held over our heads
And “Let’s make skeletons!”
Plopping down to feel the warmth of the driveway
Getting up to compare imprints
Purple Koolaid when it was still innocent
Remnants of powder on the cold metal rim.
The hope of a warped chime from two blocks away
Rushing inside to get a thin dime
Missiles and Dreamsicles
Stubbed toes and hard-baked plastic flipflops
(Called thongs in those days)
All innocence must be kept like a treasure.
And not forgotten.
Writers are the guardians of recorded time.
It’s morning, and it’s God’s day.
I sip coffee and it tastes like gratitude.
I recognize for the umpteenth time
this is a sacred moment.
I stoop over the keyboard, the cat having stolen my chair.
I grant her a moment too.
Just like God has granted me so many over the years.
And this is present day and I summon the past in the form of a real
book. I know there are plenty of people like me,
who shun electronic readers.
Who know that reading is a feast for the senses.
The feel….smell….sound…..of a page.
The look of a particular font
even the thickness of the paper, all conjured up to make it
Even before the first word is read.