Rootwork
It is early in the morning. This is writing time. This is the hour when I can feel poems stirring awake. There is one about the rootwork trees do in winter, when they only seem not to be growing. But no, there is the imperious clock instead, and the appointed hour for harnessing mind and body in the familiar yoke of school days and yearbook deadlines. And if I am to arrive by the bell, this instant I must rise, slip off my clothes, bath, dress, pack bags and go. And I must do this over and over again until I am old and hope the poems will wait for me, as seeds do for spring.
Shivverlay wrote:
The world awaits. Let’s hope for a miracle to allow you to escape the bonds of daily work. However, your students will benefit from your “forced labor” so long as it lasts, and the rest of us must wait.
Posted on 06-Dec-06 at 5:00 pm | Permalink
mindspin wrote:
In the meantime, there’s always procrastination on a Sunday afternoon to get us all by ;->.
Posted on 10-Dec-06 at 4:18 pm | Permalink