Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor --
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes --
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
Dust, by Dorianne Laux, from What We Carry
Don't your best inspirations sometimes come in the middle of the
night, seemingly out of no where? I put a pencil and notebook on
my bedside table, but most times am too tired to sit up, turn on
the light and jot it down. And besides, if I'm in a deep sleep, there
is no way I am going to jeopardize my chances of falling back to
sleep, by waking up to scribble something! If it is a particularly
poignant thought, I usually remember it the next morning and am
amazed at the random stroke of genius.