Zona Rosa

I sit at my writing desk in case I am inspired

remembering my first Zona Rosa gathering

where fertile, creative minds congregated.

Rosemary said to one member, "Say you are

a thinking-woman's Mary Higgins Clark."

She said, "Be patient. Let your soul follow

your body, I laughed at the letter she read

from a former Zona Rosan that said,,

"I moved after breaking up with that rat-faced

bastard I thought was my new boyfriend."

"The woman who spills words all over herself"

read homework about a fabulous fantasy,

a piece on toxic people, another filled

with incredible honesty. Then, she asked,

"What is the story you tell over and over?"

Rosemary said to remain single-minded.

Bingo. I liked that idea. The dinner menu

for tonight would be a helping, large or small

of "fend for yourself." I needed to figure out

what would fit into my van turned into a home

Rosemary read poetic words Marla wrote

about her murdered teacher whose classes

were spiritual and work from Elsa, who

feared spiders and penmed prose of Papa

"carrying the little casket under his arm."

I left the group a grateful visitor taking

with memories of a rainy Saturday

filled with inviting faces, treats so sweet

wine so fine and fuel that ignited me

to write my book or go mad and die.

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