I write the words and phrases but they’re like orphans. No family to help raise them from the page.
That’s when dirty clothes in the hamper, decaying food in the refrigerator, weeds that have beaten the lawn into submission call to me.
Chores make ignoring the letters on the wide expanse of white, less sinful.
The errant weed reminds me of the haphazardness of life and when I’m lucky, the churning of the trowel lifts roots of dialogue and scenes from the fertile soil. Maybe the dandelion has a story to tell.