A desk waits
by the window
in my house
in a city.
Words blow in over the lake.
Stories live next door.
Dusty and overtold ones are left on the curb
collected by the needy.
Nothing is wasted.
Parts are recycled and reused.
I’m a collector.
I’ve got baskets filled with characters.
A jar stuffed with storylines.
A taped up box labelled “conflicts’
sits on the top shelf of my closet.
Outside, the street signs reveal chapter headings
And the stories that I write
form a map of where I am in place and time.
My desk waits
By the window
In my house
In a city.
VOVOME 
Ooh, this is a slice. I can see out your window and catch a glimpse into your process, and it all resonated.
Thanks for sharing this. 😉
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Oh! I was hoping you would write this month! I love this metaphor – it makes me think a little bit of Peter Reynolds’ The Word Collector – except not. A jar stuffed with storylines. A taped up box labeled “conflicts”. I can’t wait to see what words will blow across the lake (or ocean) this month. Welcome back.
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