A Writer's Mind

I sat in the midst of boxrs filled to the brim

with old letters, journals, short stories,

essays, and poems finished, or not, notes

from writing classes I took or taught,

chapters from unfinished novels, I had

spent years writing, notebooks filled with

favorite quotes like "Persistence and

and determination are omnipotent."

I renewed ties with characters from the past ,

rewrote several poems, tossed others out..

My closet needed weeding out. It holds clothing

that begs for one more wearing, like the black

Roaring Twenties sheath. Should I toss it out?

Oh, the dark secrets that dress could tell.

I rehung the fringed number and thought of

Daisy as I sorted through more piles, toss a gold

purse with a broken zipper, then made sure

The Great Gatsby was set back on the shelk.

In an old album, I glance d at a photo.

A teen stood in the woods, holding a babe

in her young arms.What wooded area was this?

Did the girl meet someone there in the woods?

Did she give the babe away? Was it me?

I grab pen, paper. Thoughts spin in circles.

Later I would decide how much of this tale

would be trueth, how much would be fiction.

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