For once I fought back, answering Oh yes, someday when a restless muse asserted This golden age needs treatment on the page. It was the strangest lesson— all that ink to make me think shadows were real, this silence when one true heart so manifestly was. Time passed. Themes amassed; I scoffed at amber, basked in oxygen. Now in this little cabin where no sightings slake my cravings and my pen gets back its need to conjure, on the ingots I have stored, oh pine, opine.
From Silver Roses by Rachel Wetzsteon. Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Wetzsteon. Used by permission of Persea Books.