I never dreamt of writing fiction. Actually, I started by scrawling children’s poems in the margins of the math notebooks. Once I had collected three or four, I began to dream of parents reading them to their children before bed, the way my mother read my Shel and Seuss and such. And the thought of it was so incredibly satisfying. No matter what happens, all I want is for some kid to find something I wrote worth remembering.
Courtesy of a notebook somewhere:
“On How Things Come Apart”
Before anything else,
The trees and the plains,
Before the valleys and mountains,
The draught and the rain
Before you and I had forms and minds,
And life grew and became,
Then the Sea was in the Sky,
Both one, and the same.
On the ceiling overhead,
Laced in white and blue
The two forms, like fingers, intertwined
And from each other grew.
The Sea and Sky both swelled in size,
The world began to shift
Until at last the weight surpassed
What Air itself could lift.
And then a Storm was bred and born
That severed every strand
Held Sky at bay, thrust Sea away
In heavy drops to land
And filled the world with water
To the brimming line between
And thus was the Horizon,
The unforgiving seam.
And when sad Sky looks down to Sea
Across the sun-filled moat
The Storm must come and shed the rain
To keep the Sky afloat.