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.
I'd love an hour to write.
Maybe . . .
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