A bit of a piece.

I was just looking for my crochet books, as I've got an itch to play with yarn this weekend. Didn't find any stinkin' patterns, but - instead - I found a stack of old papers I once wrote in high school and college. It truly fascinated me to see how my writing has evolved over the years. Where did I learn to write in the critical present? I don't remember learning to write. It must have happened. I see in my writing what I tell my students to include, which makes me wonder how I got where I got in literary analysis.

Huh.

Anyway, totally not where I wanted to go. I have always had a habit of writing vignettes in the margins of my notes. When I read good literature, it inevitably inspires me. I don't know that I create good literature as a result, but I have little phrases and bits and pieces written in the most random places. That's probably why I haven't written much since becoming a teacher - it's not often that I get to listen to literary discussion.

Here's what I just found. I like this:

Falling from rest at the top of her head
His lips careen down her forehead
Slide down her nose
And firmly land upon her mouth to drink
This is how he loves her.

I watch as they dine
He with his eyes
as she thefts a shrimp from his plate and her rings clink against the wineglass
She quenches her thirst by sliding her nylon toes up-up-up
Between them, a smile.