Between the Waters

Letters From Home (4)

By: EarlB, 1:46 PM GMT on October 23, 2011

Dear Zoe,

Mornings are a lot darker lately as we head toward November.
Now I'm looking at stars and planets and listening to owls and
crickets at 6 am when just a few weeks ago (or so it seems to
me) it was all sunrises and mockingbirds.

The other morning I was looking out across the front yard,
pretending to see deep into the dark, listening more than
seeing, really, when I noticed the little light I had from
last-quarter moon suddenly dim. It was a bit disconcerting
for a second until I realized that it happened because of a
cloud passing between the moon and me. That's a common
occurrence, and except for an obvious cooling when it occurs
during the daytime, it goes pretty much unnoticed. It surprised
me more the other morning more because I didn't ever remember
experiencing that nighttime dimming-light sensation ever before!
(Where have I been??)

I stood then and watched those clouds and the change in the
moonlight as the clouds passed in front of the moon. The clouds
changed from dark obscuring masses to silver edged amorphous
halos to the backlight gossamers of mist. I thought of your
mom then, and of when she and I would watch the clouds so
many afternoons. Autumn days were always my favorites, the warm
sun was more appreciated when it reappeared from behind the
clouds! There were so many days steeped in our own imaginations.
We learned the value of silence earlier then than people learn it
now. We learned that our silence opened our ears to the world's
voice, from buzz of a honey bee working on clover to baby-cry
of the screech owl on it's perch.

It took time to stop long enough to see the clouds boiling
above us, it took time to feel the light as it faded in the
moonlight, and I suppose that it will take time before i become
aware of the next revelation. Well, it's only time.

missing you so much.


Uncle Roy


The Rub

By: EarlB, 11:53 PM GMT on October 06, 2011

Somewhere between the night and the dawn
As the fog's gauzy white sheet was withdrawn
From the land's alluring curves,
I tried as best I could
To remember the words I heard.

What inspires a writer to put words onto paper? It's
hard to say exactly. For me, when I need to write, I
prepare myself by opening a file or by having pen and
paper ready, and then, I wait. Waiting can be a matter of
seconds or minutes, and may end because of a pre-inspired
by a phrase heard or imagined or by something seen or felt:
Sensory in fact or sensory imagined. Or, the words may
never fully come, leaving me with a half-finished
sentence: an inspiration meant to be forgotten.

When The Muse whispers in my ear, when The Poet shares
the ideas and words, I must be ready to write or at the
very least, remember. And, "There's the rub", I MUST
be ready.

Somewhere between the night and the dawn,
In the hour when The Poet whispers in my ear,
I must choose to either write or remember,
For if I don't do one or the other,
The inspiration becomes a poem
Heard only by me.


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