No, I don’t rush

screaming into the woods


but head for the garden. Palms

cast their shadow play on the wall.


One winged creature

against the other, a god of malaise

against a god of inspiration.


One remains still,

the other moves. And yet,

one does not outdo the other.

Each holds equal power

over my sudden presence.


I become settled, content to watch

afternoon fade into the blue expanse

of haze and mountains .There are dreams

haunting the other side.

They will enter (only)
when I’m ready to listen,


balance the hours

with sheer patience. Local villagers would say

the kind found in a woman


who hand spins cotton

into thread, the birth cord of cloth, of story

laid aside, waiting for a loom.





  1. Wendy,

    You write the art and the angst of creation.
    I don’t read your words so much as feel them.
    They enter through the eye, it’s true, but they settle
    in the soul.

    The beauty of your images enhances the depth of your writing.
    Thank you again and again for sharing.


    Liked by 1 person

    • Hi Sarah

      Well, it’s beautiful and encouraging comments like these that keep me writing and confident in what I write. I am so deeply touched by your reply and thank you so very much for always making me and my work feel
      it has significant worth. That means the world to me and so does your friendship!!


      Liked by 1 person

    • Hi Jan

      Thank you so much for letting me know that you enjoyed this poem! I really appreciate it and am glad you could relate to its contents.

      Again, many thanks!

      Liked by 1 person

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