Seasons Of Creativity

it’s a sunday morning

and the moon hangs heavy and quiet

in my bus window.

i’ve woken, slowly, alone -

just myself, my thoughts and the new dawn.

this season is stitched by slowness.

long baths, dancing with no audience,

making a home on wheels, just for me.

my creativity here is private, long, deep.

i get to write until the sun rises in the morning

and goes down at night.

my bus is a museum of torn papers

filled with poems and life wishes.

but it won’t always be like this.

~

when i fall back into love,

my creativity will shift.

it will become hands.

hands that cook for two,

that write i love you on the back of things,

that sculpt our bodies together like clay

and make art from them.

~

motherhood will challenge and grow my creativity

in ways i do not even know yet.

a child—painted in flesh,

carried through bone and blood.

my creativity will not be quiet, nor constant here

(at least not in the way i remembered it)

but it will flicker in tiny moments.

it will arrive in dress-up boxes,

in made up bedtime stories,

in muffins baked on rainy days,

in the car when i scream until i can’t anymore

in stolen midnight minutes to myself

and in the shopping centre, receipt in hand,

as i scribble down poems before they vanish.

motherhood will make my creativity brief but brave.

~

menopause will shed my creativity

and bring it back, in new ways.

it will be in the soil my hands rest in,

the lines and patterns upon my skin ,

the tomatoes i grow in silence,

the stories i write in yarn and wool.

my creativity will unwind slowly and strong here.

~

and then—

then it will come out in dying.

soft like breath.

or fast with flame.

in letters i forgot i wrote.

in the i love yous i said, loudly.

in the echo of all my wild thunderous laughs.

Iin the art i leave behind.

in the way my garden will still bloom each spring.

then it will come out in death itself-

in the greatest artistic act of all:

letting go.