“Write,” says the Friday prompt, neglected until today.
Should I write the color of a clear winter sky? The color of hope deferred?
Should I write of Charles Dickens and the birthday he deigns to share with me?
Should I write the feeling of so-many-thank-yous to people who didn’t have to type “Happy Birthday” but did it anyway?
Should I write the sound of bowling balls careening down shiny-waxed lanes?
Should I write the flavor of February strawberries, imported from somewhere sunny?
Should I write the scent of wood-smoke, of peppermint lip-balm, of chocolate cake?
Should I write white herons standing in the remnant of a diverted river, mingled voices tracing melodies by Mendelssohn, people who love me when I’m feeling blue and unwillingly old-maidish, and a God whose promise to withhold no good thing is true no matter how many years I wonder?
A list of questions for the five minutes, and, in the past-five-minutes, quotations:
“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?” –C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
“As for me, I shall behold Your face in righteousness;
I will be satisfied with Your likeness when I awake.”
©2014 by Stacy Nott