Every
morning,
mug of
hot cinnamon tea in hand,
I go
down the stairs to the green table
flush
with goddess figurines, Tarot decks
and a
view of both the lowlands below
and
the rise beyond this hill.
Every
morning,
I am
called to the page.
The
old leather journal heavy
with
lined paper that will soon be
either put
aside or tossed,
in light of my
mortality and the desire
to spare
my children the chore
of
having to choose whether to read
my
musings or to feel guilty when
throwing them away unread.
This
routine, this daily habit,
is not
so rote as to be meaningless,
even
when the writing is boring
blah-blah-blah.
Ink
flows from the silver fountain pen,
shaping
letters that fill the blank space,
running from line to line, all
valuable
because they are called, I am
called,
to the page.
Does
it matter if anyone reads my
words,
if they are never published?
Is
being published what makes
a writer? No.
What
makes a writer
is being called
to the page.
Understanding
that,
I am
satisfied.
