Writing on

I am still here, still on the other side of the world, where some days I feel I am hanging on with fingernails, dangling heavily towards my homeland.  But here our family is planted, here my husband has his work, and here we stay, at God's pleasure, until he relents.  Here is where his mercy meets me for now, and I would not be elsewhere.  I have been waiting, still, for the words to march in line.  I am reminded by good writers to "keep butt in chair" and write, and so I have tried, with varying levels of success.  This season I'm working out vignette poems, because I find I need to dignify so many individual details before I can begin to make sense of all the days of these years.  I can't find that long thread that reaches across and pulls the hole closed, but I am writing on, laboring at ravelling together the ends I find in my hands, in my brain, each day.