Deborah Beecher


I am a Writer

Finding the Source

I sit, cupped by the hands of the room.You coax a tiny spark.Gentle as moss your breath blows,softly fans the flame.To me, you seem patient as Sisyphus.You sit quietly tending the fire,encourage with a questionclarify my meaning.The spark flames pure hot white.Between sessions, I flickerin winds of political pressure.A guttering candle,I build up fat like wax,afraid they’ll stamp my fire,snuff me out.Each week our minds clash;flints striking sparks.You catch the flame, teach meto bank my fire, burn with truth –a knowledge that slides like wateroff the modern world.Months later, I’m ablaze with talking.See how I kindle myself.Your constant hearthhas rendered …Read more

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