Laying in bed late at night long after everyone else is sleeping. I am exhausted and wide awake. Restless with wanting to be doing. So filled with ideas it feels as if my life is just beginning.
I think about slipping out of bed in the dark, but you're nursing by my side and I don't want to wake you. And so I bury my face in the squall of your hair - even after five months there is still no breath that is deep enough to take in all of you.
This is the time of collecting ideas. Stringing them end to end as if they are small beads that I have found - behind the dresser, under the bed, in an old tin on top of the piano. They are precious, hand-carved, engraved with someday soon.
The baby stirs and cries, it is midnight and tomorrow I may have ten minutes to begin the thing that calls me.
But I can think great thoughts while I clear the dinner dishes. I can lay in the dark between two sleeping children and write a book without paper. Plan a revolution as my hopes drift into dreams. I can organize inspiration into long list form as it flickers in and out of focus.
In the morning it will be too early. There will be the cold wood floor, a cup of hot tea. Birds at war in the yard, the cat stalking an imaginary prey. The gibberish of squirrels, a human baby quivering with excitement just to be alive. I am watching Moses as he bikes to school, a small boy with tall white socks turning the corner towards the mountains. And last nights ideas that almost burst me will be hard to find.