Eleanor Tatum

Truly, I wish I was a poet.  I enjoy trying to write poetry but I don’t gravitate towards reading it. You see, there’s this swing. It needs description but prose won’t do it.  It needs music, poetry.

This two-lover swing is attached to a boat house, facing a large, at-the-moment calm, Sunday-morning-clear-air-and sky gorgeous lake. The not far away ocean’s cleansing breeze urges my imagination to gather romantic characters for my next book of prose, not poetry; fiction, not sonnets.

I like this swing.  I’m trying not to over use the word love.  It’s an affliction of my genre. I like this pier, ducks, water weeds, and yes, even the insects and spiders. In their own way, like poets and romantic fiction writers, they proclaim their purpose.

Please remember, this is a swamp-lake and the critters’ ancestors were here first. Respectfully admire them all when and if you are invitted to share my swing.