My desk is a mess and my roses are succumbing

but there is sun today, warmth, my friend standing in the parking lot after a lunch we'd shared, pressing her face into the rays.  I feel full of possibilities—writing notes into books and on this screen, rippled through with the idea of music and voice, lifted by a text from my son, now taking his second fiction workshop and exhilarated by the critique he's received just an hour ago.  "They had so many positive things to say," he texted.  But more than that, he has ideas for a revision, and he cannot wait to start. 



You want your children to go their own way, of course you do.  But when their lines cross over, into yours, when you share this unspeakable passion for this thing called writing, it's red flowers bursting through a yellow wall, in a city you once walked through, singing.