I find it freeing to not put
boundaries on how, or what, I write.
The few times I’ve placed a fence around my words,
in an attempt to control what might come out,
I felt sick.
I bounce around from old memories,
to the smell of mud within a short story,
to the reality of what the weather is. Just now I opened our second story window and removed the screen to feel the cool drops land on my hands from the dripping of the snow melt from the roof. The drops splashed, then ran in streaks until again continuing their fall to the ground. I cupped a small portion and pulled my hand back inside; small drops fell onto the carpet next to my feet. They sparkled as they fell. I could nearly see through them, for a brief and small moment, but that too is gone.