Oh, the optimism of a paperweight for an open-window morning with breezes lifting pages of script.  In the stillness of air-conditioning, I no longer need such a doodad but keep—out of longing for what summer ought to be— the bauble of orange-white blossoms that once affirmed my status as a real writer with papers drifting away. I would have collected a dozen of those flower-bud bubbles as ballast for ideas that barely stayed— how wondrous are blobs of melted mineralrolled and tugged from a glassblower’s stick like lava-hot honey  to create a starfish, a sprig of seaweed, a bed of coral, an octopus with suckers … Continue reading Anchor, by Sarah Carleton