And then . . .

This book
meandering
as it did
for half a dozen years
like some stream seeking
the sea
reached its end
finally
a few weeks back
and left me
wondering
what next?

After the celebration
the elation
and the joy of completion
came grief
a sense of abandonment
and desertion
as the book shipped off to the printer
and left me — the writer
behind
with an empty screen

Like a woman sliding off into the night
while I slept
dreaming of the morning
the book disappeared
without a word of good-bye
leaving me alone and cold
in my bed
with my thoughts

Was this the last word?
the final book?
or just the middle of a long stream
a torrent of thoughts, dreams and words
whole books
that must burst forth?

We learn to wait
as writers
learn to listen
as if the wind
some bird
or a chorus of sirens will suddenly
whisper
or shout
an answer
command our attention
drive us to pen
pencil
or keyboard

There is less magic
than insistence
no call of the wild
no dance of the muse
no call to arms
just a rumbling
as if the earth is impatient
and a new book
or perhaps three
now demand my time
my mind
my life

There is peace
in this surrender
in writing what must be writ
a calling that is insistent
demanding
divine