Now that I have finally figured out how much of the week I can devote to my literature classes and other jobs, I can sit down in my imaginary study and put a sign above my desk that says Poet.  Have I left the Blue Garrett?  My little blue room with white trim and big windows, looking out on the sloping yard, looking out at the morning songbirds?  Yes.  This is a new place.  Neither solitary nor blue, neither white trim nor sloping lawn.  The building is set, boxy and taupe, between some trees and a road, and though it’s dingy and artificial, we are at home here.  Begonias in the windowsills and quilts hung over the sliding glass door changes the air.  My old quilt on the big wooden bed and pillowcase curtains in the small bedroom window changes things.  How I live here.  How I can write here. Especially since we have attracted hummingbirds outside our back window.

Culling poems from last year’s journal and last year’s blog entries, I found a few that I like.  More importantly, I found that I was more prolific than I thought.  Wow, even in the last two years, when no one including myself was forcing me to write, I wrote.  I can hardly say how encouraging this is: if I wrote then, surely I can write now.  The poems I’ve been bringing to my workshop have all been old, and now that I’m running out of old ones to show, I’ve been making myself write new ones, and they have only been half bad.  This is so great.  Maybe I can really start writing.  Like, be a real writer again.