Sun beating through the window promises spring. Sharp wind outside speaks of winter. Somewhere in the middle, I sit with pencil and paper taking the dictation of the seasons. My pencil carefully catches each nuance of the wind. Each stroke records the inflection of the sun. Waiting patiently as each phrase is expressed, my job is to merely transfer it to the paper. Today I am the one who writes the poets words as she speaks the lines of her poem.
Carol Rosinski