When I’m stuck and can’t budge on a writing project–when free-writing, list making, journaling from the kitchen sink’s or my dog’s point of view, clustering–when all these tools fail me, I put on my knee high boots and head out to the back shed for this . . .
my blue wheel barrel. I dig into the loamy mulch pile, toss the soil, splat, into the sturdy steel bowl of blue, and haul a load to a needy shrub–enjoying the quiet roll of the wheel barrel–up the drive, across the yard, into the ivy–my fingers holding the wooden handles, shoulders back, body balanced against the wheel barrel’s weight.
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
--William Carlos Williams
