This poem was created from a favorite prompt from Two Sylvia’s Press, where you imagine a famous person, living or dead, comes to your door and gives you a gift.
Virginia Woolf arrived
late yesterday afternoon
to bring me
the complete collection
of novels and poems
that were created
by women too busy
to write them down.
Quite a quandary, she said,
randomly opening
to a blank page.
Many of these women
weren’t allowed
to hold a pen, others
weren’t allowed
to put down
a frying pan.
She stood on my porch
in the cold March wind
and she handed me
the book like a trust.
I tried to convince her
to come in for tea, but
I couldn’t stop her.
It was late
and every time
she will wander away
toward the river.
Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash