My best words come at night (a poem about writing)

When soft music is humming and birds or bats are chirping and dusk or dawn is peeking above the horizon.

When the story is written and the deadline is looming; when I’m going through it one last time experiencing each scene in its totality; when I can feel the wonder and lean in, exploring its darkest depths.

When I alter the hue and sharpen the edges. When I saturate the images or bring out stark relief.

My best words come when I’m sleep-deprived and stressed, or first thing in the morning when my mind is murky, and coffee bites my tongue.

Before I’ve faced the world or after I’ve tuned them out. When I can disappear into my story and the walls holding me in disappear.

When my spelling is awful and my fingers don’t keep pace with the landscape of my inner eyes, when I stumble and stutter and ramble and spit, clicking and

clacking away at plastic keys with luminous letters, churning out stars and oceans.

My best words come when they want to, not when they’re called. They linger at the edge of my settled mind, nervous to be employed, skittish of being tamed.

But when I sit still and tell a story, they come closer to listen, and sometimes can’t help but reveal themselves.