The morning is cold.

The work is warm.

The blank paper perches patiently,

waiting for me to initiate

a conversation.


Word by word.

Words dissolve into paragraphs

and eventually become the fiber of story.


What is the reward of writing?

The act of writing itself.

The rest of it are luck and amazement.


When I think of writing, I think of my house.

The house where the ground

is safe and the ceiling smells like

a fresh rosemary.

The house where I can cherish

all the things that once

were unknown to myself.

The house where I always

return to learn about

curiosity and courage.


An intelligent woman

once told me to never stop writing.

I cling to her truth in my heart


The Writing Desk by Childe Hassam (1859-1935) (Artist)

closely, till it becomes

my second heart.


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