Ode To A Writer’s Retreat
by Elayne Clift

Virginia Woolf knew in her soul what a quiet space,
A “room of one’s own” can yield: Words spring from your bosom.
Generous, gentle fountains of words rise from your belly to
Rebirth the shimmering gift. Visions sprout, spew, stun,
Like tiny monuments to craft upon the once-blank page.

In the cavern of possibility, memories drip like stalactites.
Jeweled words, perfect words, offer shape and substance,
Playing at your cheeks, licking your lips like a sated kitten,
Cleansing itself before repose. Little words swirl round your mouth,
Big thoughts tickle your tongue, refusing to be silenced, or swallowed.

No longer tread softly upon tenuous terrain!
Rather, move with a wordsmith’s confidence,
A maker of sound and meaning. Prime, parse, perfect,
Then release your words into the ether, where they resonate,
Claiming their rightful place in the cosmos.

And when next you are asked, “What do you do?”
Say, “I write. I am a writer.”
Be awed by the reality of that bold claim,
Even if no one believes you. Say, “I write.
I am a writer. I write!”



 

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