(1st thought) The last one wrung me like an old washer. Left me flapping thin and ragged on the line. Transparent. Insubstantial. Unraveling. So I'm afraid, dear blank page, that the good ones have all been written. You'll get no more wordscapes from me. (2nd thought) Unless... That wind-swooped strand over there. If I can tangle my fingers in its texture. Follow it tumbling, spitting word-scraps tripping sideways... (3rd thought) "Hello Erato!" Tricksy lyric lender. Elusive muse. Oh, but this time you're caught. This time your lilting word tumbles are mine. For, my dearest muse, I'm already holding my pen. talking myself into one more © 2022
Tracie Nichols 