There was enough room on the desk for a few pieces of paper to sit off to the side of the keyboard and accost me with their whiteness. Beyond the desk, two windows looked out onto the parking lot and a lush bundle of trees. Because the parking lot was never busy, it looked only like the area beneath the windows was beset by nature, trees that would sway or stand still, a sky that was decidedly blue until it turned pink in early evening.
It was in the years between adolescence and the perennial day job that I would sit down for one hour to write each day. There were times that I would write stories, but after finding enough inspiration in poets like Theodore Roethke and Sara Teasdale, I would put aside an hour to write a poem. The hour, unfortunately, was frequently approached with the worst of trepidation.