While I lay in bed

When I lay in bed at night,

whole books are written.

I can feel words just flashing back and forth across the page. 

I want to write whole novels, and I have so many ideas. 

But then morning comes and the farm and children are calling and I find the words floating away to some other place. 

When I sit down to write later ...

They are gone.

I long for more time. For me.

And yet, I wanted so badly to be the mother that I am right now. 

I consider it the greatest vocation in the world

and I know that when the days of children living in my home are in the past, I will grieve their loss.

But today,

I'd love an hour to write.

Maybe . . .

tomorrow.