This morning I found myself
early in the cold kitchen
drawing vines of wildflowers
with colored pencils I found in a drawer--
putting aside for the moment
what might need doing, just letting
my hand move freely over the page
as I hadn’t done in such a long time.
 
My inner critic was nowhere to be found.
No buzzing of correction in my ears,
only the soft splay of bees’ legs in buttercups
and bird beaks working worms in the brown soil.
The sun rose in the top right corner, but I had
no yellow to fill it in, so it became ballet pink
and wonder blue, as all the best sunrises are.


© by Ellen Rowland.
Used here with the author’s permission.