When time permits

Previously

…Inside was a room filled with notebooks. Thousands of them. Each one open. Each one waiting. She opened her eyes. The rain had stopped. The sun was trying to break through the clouds. She smiled, and walked home, the feather steady in her hand. That night, she wrote in her notebook: The poem is a door that opens into doors. I knock, and the knocking is the poem. I wait, and the waiting is the answer. She didn’t finish it. She left it there, a seed. Tomorrow, someone else would water it. And the sapling grew another leaf.