Dandelion Girl

This poem is dedicated to my middle child. Who looks at the world through different eyes and is my endless inspiration.  I write under her nickname to show her that anything can be overcome if you put your mind to it.

Dandelion Girl

A halo of hair, caught in the sunlight.
Every fibre defiant to the end.
Whiskers, helping her to find her way.
To keep her safe.
An inspiration to me.
This is my dandelion girl.

Her gaze pauses, a moment of stillness,
In her otherwise flowing movement.
Green eyes flick to me.
The smile spreads outwards,
Engulfing me in fire and love.
This is my dandelion girl.

Then she is gone.
Sure footed, mind soaring.
The world vibrating a little round her.
A spinning planet, drawing others closer. 
Her golden soul sparkles and glitters.
This is my dandelion girl.

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

An emotional week, then a phone call from one of my oldest and best friends.  I have so many words at the end of my finger tips and yet I don't think I managed a single one when that storm hit.  Suddenly the world felt a little larger.  Instead of being able to hold her, I was holding my phone, one finger in the ear surrounded by screaming children. 

I'm sorry my darling.

We spoke the next day and this time it was her, finding all the right words for me. Showing me in the mirror what I could be, that there really is no excuse for not putting myself forward for things; take chances.  To stop looking for support and validation in what I do from those around me.  She is so strong, so much stronger then she thinks and such an inspiration to me.

An aside

Normally I take a tiny spark of inspiration, mull it around in my mind (usually while out doing the school run in the rain), then sit down and write something.  A writer I follow on twitter described the process as being on a par of making a stew, the pot is constantly simmering away in the background and bits are added until the finished food is ready to eat, complex layers of flavour and aroma having been allowed to organically build up.

Every time I see a spark, a glimpse of something I want, it slips though my fingers.  Or if I manage to catch it and try to massage it into something more, it goes flat and limp.  So instead I read; I read everything I can get my hands on, in the hope that it will help. 

So I've pulled myself together and decided that maybe I should sidle up to it, not look it directly in the eye and just start.  It's the starting that's important and it's the starting I haven't been doing.  A synopsis looks forlornly at me and I'm still on the fifth chapter of a story.  My poor protagonists have been sitting around in a desert waiting for me to get my act together since last month.  I just hope they haven't got sunstroke.

Then there is my muse, the person who inspires me, fills me fire, whose magic no longer works.  Shouldn't I be able to do this alone?  I did before I met them.  It's been like having a lover whose left me.  I was perfectly fine and capable before they came into my life, even happy, but when they left, they left a large and gaping hole.  I know what I'm missing.

But look.  I'm writing and it feels good.