Another poem about writing, the concentration it demands ... and the distractions which intrude, especially if the writing is being done in an attic room -- er, studio -- and the squirrels are PLAYING games overhead.
Before we had our maple TREES TRIMMED, our roof seemed to be a favorite gathering spot for those rascals.
It sounded like they were having squirrel conventions up there, or the Squirrel Olympics, maybe even doing some line dancing, although I couldn't hear the music, just those little feet, back and forth, back and forth ... back and forth ...
Oh, there were moments of quiet ... I suppose while they were choosing up sides again ... plotting their next moves. During these suspenseful moments I could get a few words written. Then the commotion RESUMED.
As I recall, my first draft, instead of talking about "teeny-tiny feet," said something about "obnoxious little feet," but I mellowed a bit after that.
In the quiet that followed the trimming of those overhanging limbs, I guess mellowing was to be expected.
Oh, and I purposely kept the lines short ... in order to underscore the tension of writing under such pressure.
LET THEM TRY
my green roof
while I write,
trying to break
Hah! Let them
try. I am so
focused not even
could faze me;
pit of their
(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)
Today's word: pitter-patter