I sit typing and
a giant moth flies by me, the wind of her wings
going just past my ear
like a breath
on the dirty fixture above.
A cricket sings in the next room while
lady bugs amass on the streaky, smeary window.
Tendrils of ivy
poke through the 100 year old gaps in this house,
easing in to gradually steal away my walls.
Until I will look down at my feet and see lush green
a verdant sponge around me.
As I type,
a bird will come and
sit on my shoulder digging his delicate, dry, sharp feet into my thin skin.
He will eat crackers from my mouth, the way
my writer friends’ parrot did.
I type, and the keys become beetles,
wriggling beneath my fingertips,
trying to evade being made into words.
The children, who used to come in to dust me now and again,
have long given up
and retired to their rooms.
They hear the singing, the walls falling, the cracker nibbling
and the clackety-click of the keyboard beetles,
and they know
Mom is Writing.