4-9 NaPoWriMo |
When will I ever learn to click save; to give a poem a name even if it is not the name it will go through life with? Why do I feel as if it must be just so before I preserve it, protect the words mid way through? Like a child, it morphs and grows, back tracks, falls asleep mid whine and I find myself enjoying the process, watching it sleep curled on the page. 'Til it wakes, screaming for attention. Yesterday, my child, my poem changed, grew and I followed breathlessly along. So wrapped up in how it raised its head and charged off swirling around itself, dancing to maple syrup morning magic that I could do naught but let my fingers try to keep up until I moved my mouse and the poem crashed. Different words appeared, another page and it wouldn't let me back up, take those seconds back, and grab my child before it raced off into oblivion. Gone, as if it never existed but for a wisp or two of phrase. Like an illusive scent of wood smoke it vanished into the ether. I could not recapture it, had to walk away and mourne. No point in trying to find it for it would have changed in its freedom. It would never be quite the same. They never are, you know, once they fly the nest. Perhaps, some day, it will roost again and ruffle its feathers tickling the urge to write it again. Different yet the sure essence will remain. Perhaps. Or, it may be, forever, gone. Why I didn't preserve it when I had the chance? |