I want to write, but every time I sit down I feel my energy evaporate like moisture on hot pavement. Five months pregnant, and my orbit has grown small. Small so that it only encompasses my growing family. As small as the round circle of the milky white moon climbing rung by rung into to the heavens through the branches of the tree. As small as a dinner plate.
At the end of the day I curl up on the couch with a head full of daydreams. Suddenly I've been having images of paintings I want to create. The slightest whisps of glimmers for stories, like the first hint of smoke in the autumn air.
I am content to wait. Content to let making minestrone soup from scratch and cornbread muffins be enough accomplishment for the day.