10-Line Tuesday

July 17, 2012

from our fingertips
 
The bookstore in the middle of nowhere rises above a waterfall
and we sit, tucked into a corner, our two chairs nearly kissing,
to listen. July is exactly what July should be – hot and still,
the fan hardly cooling us - but there’s something about a window opening
to the sound of a river pummeled downstream that lifts our pen to a blank page.
We did not come here to read the volumes crowding the shelves. We did not come
to ponder old literature, creaking stories in fragile bindings. It is the rage
of water we’re here for, breaking free. This place is for beginning, the thrum
that forecasts change, and I am sitting in my tilted chair as new words tumble out –
unfamiliar, slippery, soft as moss, carving a riverbed from a dusty spout.