Words, odd combinations of letters, inviting the imagination, the connection between me and thee. I lost them somewhere.
They bury themselves in sand, tickle my bare feet as the tide washes out. I miss them but the rain washes them all away. I do not write for two weeks.
Wordless as I walk the shoreline, peer into tide pools, watch puffins settle on the great Mother Rock. Seagulls swoop the gray skies. At 8:36 PM, a shimmer of brightness just above the horizon, a splash of light touching clouds, a shimmer in the skim of water remaining as the tide recedes.
Like the turning of the moon, words return when I least expect them, crowd into dreamtime and waken me with the unexpected. Starving for words, I drink them down in a scribble.
From this two projects erupt, not one but two, seeming appropriate in the Light of Gemini.
Today, an unexpected confirmation that perhaps other writers also covet but do not even know they wish. A juxtaposition. I walk into the dark Pickford Film Center to find my favorite middle seat. A woman passes, turns and comes back. “Are you the one who wrote the Noir Poem,” she asks.
“Yes.” I am so surprised that I don’t even register what she’s saying. But she liked it, has seen me read in several places. I am delighted. Not as an ego bump, but as recognition that my words have touched someone’s memory, that there was resonance and understanding.
I am glad the words have returned. Now, those two projects call.