Sitting down,

the first thing I do

is turn on the thin

chrome desk lamp.

Light floods the glass top

of a lean, modern desk.

Jars and mugs

filled with all manner

of colored pens and sharpened pencils

crown the top of the desk.

Above the desk,

a large picture window

brings in orange glows of sunrise.

This is a place for writing,

for pondering,

for creating.

There is something so uplifting

about my own writing space.

Hopefully

this haven,

carved out especially for words,

is an incubator

for creativity.

.

Heading out with the dogs

for an afternoon walk,

my mind is heavy

with “to dos”,

worries, ideas.

But,

after a block

I notice a young cherry tree,

perfect pink blossoms,

flowering at eye level.

On the corner,

my pups meet a friend,

and my mouth

lifts in a smile.

Next, a tender breeze

sweeps a few items

off the list in my head.

The late day sun

slows my pace

and warms my cheeks.

As I turn up my walk,

I feel restored.

The dogs are uncertain.

They watch as cars,

then trucks

pull up to the newly built

house across the street.

Three young girls

spill out of a car

and rush up the walkway.

The girls are familiar –

like visions

from a warm summer day.

If the dogs were outside,

instead of standing

noses pressed to glass,

they would know

these are the same girls

who spoiled them

and petted them with abandon,

just two blocks away.

For the family,

the new house

is a fresh start.

But the dogs are still uncertain.

Good morning!

So glad to see you.

How are the kids?

Great.

Ryan begins his residency soon,

Abby is studying at Georgetown.

Wonderful.

How is your son?

Getting married next year.

How is your husband?

Radiation treatments are done.

Fingers are crossed.

Moments of joy

mix with moments of hope

in life shared

over the fence.

Star magnolia,

weeping cherry,

yellow daffodils,

purple hyacinths,

flowering pear —

all opening this warm spring morning.

At school,

shorts,

warm smiles,

lip gloss,

early romance —

all in bloom,

blushing, bursting colors

of spring.

Books are always the answer.

The thundering herd

galloped by —

feet pounding,

shoes squeaking,

loud huffing

emanating

from the leaders.

If this were the Serengeti,

dust would billow

behind the massive group.

Instead,

shiny linoleum greets the pack

as they turn the corner —

only to sprint back,

lap after lap.

Is it safe

to leave my room?

Or will I be trampled

by the dedicated competitors,

each charging for superiority.

Oh no!

Ms. Sanderson,

I have to go home…

right now.

You don’t understand,

I left my book

at home.

I need to know

what happens.

Rather than leaves,

the sturdy poplar

was clothed in starlings.

Inky black birds

rested on the branches

like dabs of oil paint

on a stretched canvas.

As the late day sun

settled just above the horizon,

each bird’s coat

shimmered,

an iridescent rainbow

revealing the glory hidden

in even the noisiest bird.

“Why am I taking this test?”

Well,

the state wants to make sure

you have the writing skills

they require.

“What if they read

my searing memoir on loneliness,

or my ode to reunited friends

instead?”

“Oh! I know.

How about the state

reads my essay

on how to create

green spaces in our community?”

Sorry,

this is just about the data.