You might have noticed my recent silence here. I have no explanation to offer other than the reality of life with a newborn, said reality consisting of round-the-clock feedings, projectile poop (4 feet and counting), and sleep-deprivation (there were hallucinations). Said reality leaves little time for creative endeavors, and when I’ve had that little time, I’ve devoted it to finishing Rethana’s Trial and to editing Josh Unruh‘s Weird Western.
Yesterday, whilst out walking with the aforementioned projectile-pooping newborn (she was not projectile-pooping at the time, which made the walk much more pleasant), my creative brain randomly kicked into high gear and made a poem. Last night, I had a chance to sit down and write it all out. I thought y’all might want to read it, so here it is:
by Courtney Cantrell
I want to live in a house
with half a million windows
and trim painted the color of laughter.
I want the sunshine in every room
and enough kitchen countertop space
to cook breakfast for a multitude.
The dishes are crystallized happy tears,
the teacups are adoration solidified,
and the cutlery is made of rainbows.
I want a bag of pixie dust
hung on every doorknob
and monster-hair plants stretching toward the ceiling.
Every closet leads to Narnia,
every mirror to Wonderland.
Every threshold is a bridge to Terebithia.
I want stars to carpet the floor.
I want to swish skip crunch through them
like crackling leaves in autumn.
The lamps burn on love
and don’t have an “off” switch.
The shadows are made of angels.
We lay ourselves to rest
on cushions of fluffy clouds,
and from our lips spill all things bright and merciful
as our hearts sing in sweetest harmony with forever.
I hope you enjoy reading that as much as I enjoyed writing it. : )
And because it goes well with the poem, I leave you with the melted crayon rainbow I recently finished for the projectile-pooping newborn’s room.