25 December 2017:
I understand I live in an apartment,
but I have always wanted
a workshop away from the house.
Not to handcraft floating shelves
from 2x4s or beached logs,
but a space from which to write out into
the world. Something like
Wendell Berry’s Kentucky woods
or Stegner’s California.
I want that silence found through
a simple walk between
oak or pine, through a
simple door, to a simple
desk—with books stacked askew,
papers and notepads full
of pen-scratched dribble.
Is that not the dream
David Gessner made for himself
along the coast of Carolina?
I do not want to disappear,
but I want a writing shack
to turn to, hollering-distance
from the house. I want four walls,
a window, and that ancient
promise that the words will come.
If you sit long enough.
If you wait.
Writing from Here 