Consistency is simply not my forte – not my strength.
So much I wish.
So much I want.
The hours of stillness before everyone is up, before all the needs
of everyone start piling up before me.
So much I wish.
So much I want.
But not enough apparently, if longing for and wishing, wanting for
was deep enough, long enough, high enough, full and pouring over,
I would find the time, make the time, create minutes out of
breaths between, store them in my pocket and pull them out,
stitch them together to embroider a moment
with pen and paper
to wrap my thoughts around words,
to poise and perch and leap
at the page
my heart
Splat
right there on the page,
a big mess of bright colors
of wants and needs and loves and hopes
and my voice singing boldly
from amidst the jumbled,
busy, happy deluge of color
and water and fountains
of words dancing in the light;
splashing and spraying and laughing.

And my children are loud and crazy
in the next room, ready to topple me
with play. It is the weekend, my time
to hold them, and wrestle and run after them
days on end for fun. I am filled up from a moment
of writing – my heart is in balance
and I am off to be a mommy!

(It was after writing this that I started getting up at 4:30 to give myself time for myself, time to write, or read, or think, or sit and stare out the window, as poets need to do – according to Billy Collins!)