This morning, I am drawn back to writing that book I said I never would. Reluctantly, I chip away at it like a cack-handed sculptor with clumsy tools, attacking a lump of ancient stone, torn from its roots, embroidered with lichens and microscopic flowers. Why? The stone is already beautiful, the story sufficient in my head, without the toil of carving pages full of words. Perhaps because I am me, like it or not, and no amount of surgery will make me a person who does not make stories in her head and write them down.

Spring comes because
the earth turns even though
the clouds are dry.