Room to Write

I have a room in which to write.  It is small and narrow and full of westward-facing windows.  I love it already.  So far, no writing has occurred.  Mainly the stars and sky and sun and water and I have been staring at one another in and out of time.  Here is my sabbath.  Here is where I do my work of rest.  With the seagulls, train whistles, and wind. 

In my room, I would like a small tall table, with two chairs, and a glider.  I have a tea pot, with two matching cups and saucers.  In the winter, I will move my oil heater into the room.  I will wear jackets and scarves and hats.  I will curl up with comforters and be comforted.  I will sit as close as I can get to the outside and hope the windows don't freeze over.  I will sleep out there in the summer.  I will.  My niece and nephew will play there.  My parents will sleep on a queen size blow up mattress that we will procure when they come to plant my garden in the spring. 

I will be very much in "the love that dances at the heart of things".  So much can this one room contain, receive, release.