With a sigh, I drop my pen to my notebook and stare out the window wishing for an English class and an assignment to write.
I am frustrated with my pen and the hand that holds it. “Why won’t you write the correct words or phrases or, at the very least, the wrong words with symmetry and flow?” I ask the hand. It all began in a park. A silent, peaceful, walk in the park. I stood on the estate and took in the dirt path and the trees and the lake, and I listened. Wind sang across the land, encouraging each bird to harmonize in alto or soprano voices; one bird boldly tweeted a descant. Quietly, the wind sent soft shudders across the lake creating splashes of water on the shore. Above me, the trees used the wind as a voice of their own and in their eagerness they spoke over each other. Naked branches snapped and swayed while leafy trees whispered amongst themselves in a loud rustle. Dust on the trail rose up into little devilwinds spiralling across the path before resting in a new place again. On the side of the trail, bushes, briars, twigs, and grass gossiped about the birds singing off rhythm and murmured soft hums. My boots added a maraca-like “skakashaka” as they met the gravel, solid step after solid step. If I were to stop, close my eyes, and hold my breathe for a slight moment I could imagine myself purposefully lost in the familiar woods of home.
The day continued. The song of the wind resonated in my mind and across my skin long after I had left the park. I wished I could write poetry or music to mimic the wind.
“Hush, hush, breathe.” I wrote. Scratching it out, I scribbled “she can’t write poetry.”
With a sigh I drop my pen to my notebook and stare out the window wishing for English class and an assignment to write.