I slip from this pocket
to his, looking for space,
corner or even a web,
to lay the tools
out in open, to let
the mind unwind
without freezing.
I need an emptiness,
a sharp knife to cut open
the rolling walls
swirling up with glaring,
twinkling eyes.
Is there a way out?
I ask. Is there a way
in? I ask.
Woolf said, тАЬa woman must
have a room of her own
if she is to write fiction.тАЭ
But I am not a rat.
Beneath the random
shades of a tree, I want
to write-
watching the clouds float by
and giving in to the strums
of spring,
leave the trails behind
Stay with
Prerna ЁЯЩВ
