You write so much,
why not write a book says the critic,
something significant,
weighty,
full of pages.
These little scraps you write,
this fluff,
these words like ragamuffin children
you let loose,
are trifles,
fool scrap,
something anyone can do.
I nod in agreement, in appeasement.
I have no magnus opus,
great canvas,
a body of work.
Only little orphans,
playing with stones,
pursuing rabbits,
calling to each other behind trees,
ephemeral ghosts,
motes in the air,
thoughts balled up like string,
but I keep trying.
Focus on plots I say to myself.
Find the inward shape of things.
Eat an apple,
bury the seeds,
join the community of scribblers
and painters,
tin-eared banjo players,
intellectual paper weights,
and write songs without notes,
pictures without paint.
And I tell my critic,
I will, I will,
as soon as I finish this note to myself.