There are times when a writer cocoons—pulls silence over head and tucks chin into contemplation. She hides away on a post-Christmas day when others bustle about returning gifts. The hours seem endless as she meanders along lazy rivers of the mind, never leaving small spaces—a cozy bed, the nook of a couch, an office chair.


When I was a girl, my mother tried to train a wide-eyed filly. The horse snorted and pranced, pulled against the lead rope that restrained and forced her to walk in circles. Around and around the arena she danced, pawed the ground, and reared towards the sun. Mom loved, (yet I suspect feared) that filly for the horse would bolt with only the rustle of burnished leaves. READ THE ENTIRE POST…

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