II. Encounter

II. Encounter

We like to imagine

that creativity begins inside us—

a sealed room

lit by inspiration.

But the work does not stay obedient.

You start with a sentence.

Soon the sentence starts asking

for another one.

A paragraph leans unexpectedly

toward childhood.

An image returns

night after night

until you finally let it enter.

The material pushes back.

Not dramatically.

More like wood grain

resisting the saw.

More like clay

collapsing where your hands

press too hard.

You adjust.

Not because you lost control,

but because control

was never the whole process.

The writing knows things

before you do.

A phrase carries extra weight.

A silence appears

where explanation failed.

You follow the piece

the way a dog follows a scent

through tall grass—

alert, uncertain,

led forward

by something partly hidden.