______________________________________________________________Right now I have the opportunity to clean house as a friend is coming over tomorrow or to write. I'm choosing the latter. I'm choosing the one that I could actually become something--a poem, an essay, a story--not the one I do that I'll have to do a few days from now and again, keep shaking out the throw rug over the deck.
When I was outside on the surprise warm day, I realized the vines of morning glory have reached their spinning heads from the ground. It's almost time for me to have two homes that need taking care of--inside and outside. I do enough to keep the neighbors from swearing at me, but not enough to have a garden that's "enviable." This suits me. This is my dress of life, not trimmed rosebushes, but a dress of wildflowers and buttercups.
I'm realizing as the weather gets better how much time I will spend away from my home, from my writing, from my garden. I feel a bit "out of time" and while there is always so much to do, there is also nothing to do but sit in my office and work on a poem. I celebrate in small ways--expensive cheese, good coffee, taking what time I need and using it to write.
