Writing Virginia’s Way, poem by Rebecca Del Rio

      Staring out the window—wasn’t it Virginia

      Woolf who said that most writing was

      just that? Writing is just that

      or staring at the soap,

      slick and lively in the hand as

      the shower steams and ideas form,

      flower and disappear into rivulets

      meandering through a misty landscape.

      Writing is musing, then muttering

      over the imperfection

      of unwritten words, the blank page

      as innocent and guileless as

      the newborn wailing for solace

      that hardly comes. Oh, but when

      it comes, it comes like summer

      rain, smells clean as creosote in the desert,

      washed by wonder and good fortune.


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