A breeze is billowing through my house, making the sea-shell chimes sing with their low, suggestive voice. Doors shudder now and again, birds call, the sky sighs and I keep half an eye on it, suspecting rain. I am laying an old road beneath moonlight with words, but I don't forget the laundry hanging to dry outside.
In the root-place of the wind, waves are rolling up on a wild and dark shore. I can feel that wildness and smell the cold distant darkness of the sand on the breeze within my little house. I half-want to walk through the forests and farmlands between me and the root of the wind. But really, ultimately, I'm quite content here today with my manuscript document and my tea.
The lovely Lissa has an interview with me at her weblog, Postcards From the Rain. I have followed Lissa for years now as she dreams her way across the internet. I love her writing. She has a way of holding on to language as if it is an elusive image of beauty that can only be made substantial by delicate serifs and glances and an unexpected tumble of word into shape such as you would never have dreamed of and yet it is more than perfect. I have been wishing for years that she would write a book but she is too wise and too magical. Her art also is beautiful.