When I read good writers
or should I say, in my humble opinion
as who’s to decide,
because I tend to read a lot of
non-fiction –
writers who feel as if we
are in a kind
conversation
they tend to make me feel
like I
should like to write
not in any sort of illusions of grandeur
but rather just
to
hold up my end
of the conversation
having recently finished, and loved
Permission, by Elissa Altman
whom I admired greatly for
so many reasons
where I have grown to appreciate each and every word
uttered
and just now, as I am sunk deeply in to
You Could Make This Place Beautiful, by Maggie Smith
a book that I had held on the shelf for some time
not sure when
to
begin
a book that for a time felt
a little like everyone was reading
and that usually is reason enough for me
to
not
I’m just not a ‘follow the crowd’ kind of reader
(or kind of anything really)
much prefer to take things for their own
merit, I suppose
rather than just
popularity
However,
the writing of Maggie Smith comes with a kind of
familiarity
that courses through my veins
as I go
and has me in conversations in my head
of things
to say
and of things to write
good writers to me,
do this
yesterday I sat outside by the small pond
to read
and sighed in perfect peace
for this lovely spot
my happiest, most tranquil
the sun was bright in the sky and warm
on my shoulder
beside me a couple of toads
a bright orange goldfish
the beautiful stripes of a hover fly
squirrels racing around the tree
cardinals, sparrows, a couple of cabbage whites
and an ant investigating my coffee cup
this morning,
windy and wet
outside the small window on the stairs
I have been watching the lilac and honeysuckle
come to bud
quite amazing how very quickly they push through
and suddenly are almost
fully
in
leaf
before your very eyes
I’ve been thinking of
how protective I have become
of my fears
how very large and encompassing
I trust them to provide a repellent shield
around me
and how best
I
will keep me
safe
there is much to this, you know
it’s a small child, isn’t it
like the delicate blue
of a
robin’s egg
in the fall we had to cut down our big beautiful wisteria
in order to rebuild the arbour
that bore its
support
every day now, I search
for signs of life
silently willing it to
survive
yesterday, in my
peace-loving state
I notice
in the tangle of thick stems
at its base
in the very centre of a raw cut
a small
brown
heart
when I read good writers,
it makes me feel
like I should write
words to you…
like love ♥
