Writers rise and fall
They rise in writing productivity.
This post comes as a Write Monday post and goes out to my Monday Poets group and Redwood Writers, the most extensive branch of the California Writers Club. I have been thinking about what determines if a person rises in life or lets life’s hardships beat her down. Not having an answer to this question or observation I can only say that people I love to distraction seem to be risers. All of the writers I have connected deeply with have a core of hope and love larger than themselves. They tap it whenever they write. They touch it whenever they give encouragement to other writers. They expand it when they help other writers to get published.
A Prose Poem Published in a Redwood Writers’ Anthology
Oceans, Eons of Sea
Nightly mists mute the land under churning streams.
Fog creeps over tree roots. Before dawn, it rises, vanishing corners of the neighborhood. Cloud-fingers take back what eons ago climbed from the sea. They take back the salamanders and frogs. They take back the earthworms and living soil. They take back the possum and the raccoon, along with the sleeping people.
The ocean takes us back, drop by drop. Mounting seas warming our planet take seacoasts, beaches, and islands. Why not this desert with its dry valleys and hills?
The land thirsts for rain, which does not come. Sonoma County hills lie parched, plagued by heat spells as unbridled as California’s central valley. The blazing sun comes—a curse. Days of summer and autumn scorch the live oak savannah. Wild grasses lie defeated—baked to straw, leaving dairy cows hungry and thirsty.
As the sun rises over a befogged sky, our eyes gladden at the sea’s gift soaking into garden beds. The damp leaves amoeba-shaped puddles on the pavement, a spirit’s footprints.
A wet embrace comes in a single raindrop, a child’s kiss
before the surf comes in. We clasp a damp hand—before we let go.
By Deborah Taylor-French
Please don’t go.
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