What is gossamer? I catch the thought as the sunlight moves within the curtains dancing in the light morning breeze. Are my curtains gossamer? I don't think so. Gossamer reminds me of wings, great moon coloured wings that move like silk and guide air like turbine, not sheer curtains that skip alongside half-closed windows. As they dance and curtsey I know point will come where my hand will inch towards my phone, begging for an answer and kick start the search engine for my attention. For now, I let the answer sit in the room amongst the strewn clothes and ironing board shelf. I let it rest like a dog upon the bed, its subtle movements giving hints of its dreams. The morning is cold, wisps of winter have tangled with the night…
and are stumbling home against a warming sun.
I ran out of time and just had to finish off that last thought for this story. I definitely enjoy doing free-writing more than the rhyming. There's a lot more to the story I can expel onto the page and the story always feels like its taking interestingly peculiar turns.
Time to google what gossamer is in case that word pops into my head again.