Once, in the garden of Jack London’s home,
I sat so still thinking of him
that a wren landed on my head
thinking I was a statue, perhaps,
a place to stand and survey the land
for his kind of food, berries or bugs,
while I thought of Jack London –
how he didn’t wait for inspiration
but wrote every day
insisting the words appear on the page,
those stories that ripen as the berries in his garden
as alive as the birds getting ready to feed.
FEWalls
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