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.