Caught

Twice today when I was working on a poem, I got caught.

The first time, a co-worker walked by me while I was staring into space, and I jumped, and he wondered what I'd been doing. "Writing a poem," I explained. Although I was nowhere near pen, paper or computer.

The second time, I was driving the car with S. in the back, on our way to pick up her sister. We were stopped at a light, and while trying to form an idea, I did something with my right hand - just a gesture, like I was shaping clay in mid-air, I guess - and S. said, "Um, Mom? What are you doing?"

"I'm writing a poem," I said.



I've been thinking about the space I'm in when I'm creating - not just physical, but mental, physic, what have you.


I sometimes feel that I am an ecstatic.


But then my break is over, or the light turns green, or the dog needs to go out. I know I'm not alone in this dancing between practical life and the siren call of a Muse. But I had to write *something* for today's post, and here's what came.