Sometimes something stirs within my mind and sets words in there that I don’t even know myself until they find their place on the page. They seem foreign to me, yet whisper of a past, a truth, a knowing that comes from somewhere else. Somewhere that is not the me I look at in the mirror every day. Not the artist, (no) not the wife, caretaker, or friend. Somewhere in another time– another mind. Whispers into my ear these words, like warm cookies that melt in my mouth and leave a taste both sweet and bitter. My hands deftly hit the keys or stroke the paper with pen to lay down verse, or words, or strings of words that fall on the page like raindrops from my eyelashes. Strange and wonderful. Sometimes mixing with the tears I taste their saltiness. The words beg me to write them. They call me with urgency to lay them down. How can I deny it? When would I say– no? Then, when I push it aside and silence the calling and plunder about my day, the words become lost and lonely again—falling in to the back drop of my memory. Slowly losing and fading quietly from their once reverberating demands. Now they have retreated. With me. They go behind, and (may) wait till they have yet another chance to hope to be written. I then think and ponder–(later…) What was that I just heard?