Freshly Dusted

I return now to a lonely typewriter, bedazzled by the wildflowers half-resting on the mahogany table beside it. Dust motes drift through the air, caught in the last traces of evening sun. I have not imagined a desk like this one in a long time. It brings back memories of moments well told, half-hearted menageries of mystery and delicacy. 

I have not written in so long, yet now my heart again longs for poetry, for the Master Hand to tune the strings of my heart to achieve its brilliant crescendo. Indeed, all of nature sings its piece, and as its prized creation, can I but help to join in? 

I seek now to capture the fine tuning of man's creation. To lift up and examine the way dust detours to dirt or to satisfy this yearning lust for language. Before, I filled notebooks duct-taped together, journals leather and time-worn. Today, I type, each key clacking one after another, methodically. Before, I cobbled together names and meanings, attempting to find a reason to write other than my own. Looking for escape rather than beauty. Now, I simply write, and let droplets fall where they may.

There will be only one attempt. One draft, turned over in my mind until its perfect imperfections are rendered complete. My diction will run unbridled, bearing its floweriness in a crown of daisies, proudly displayed beside the wealth of kings. 

Who am I? 

I am one breathlessly seeking eleutheromania, a murmur of quiet independence needing no anthem. I am one who loves the people left behind, the ones who've never noticed love before. I am the one who fills in the gaps, covering the walls with snapshots of beauty and pressed papers that mean nothing to someone else. 

Thus with words on my lips and ink under my fingertips, I return now to this typewriter I vacated. Let poetry beat in every key, new worlds breathe in every word.

It's an auspicious beginning, the last day of May.