Who am I in all this / to feel love so abundant? This morning, a tree / on my lawn catches the sun. It sits in bare branches / like a bright ball of yarn I want to keep in a basket / even though I can make nothing of it.
My question for Nicholson was, when it’s time to steer Cassini straight into Saturn, will you feel sad? Will you miss it? Leave it to a poet to want to understand the depth of our attachments.
If I define legitimacy as believing in my voice and the creative work regardless of permissions (in other words: *I* say it’s important; *I* say it has value), I can muster the wind.
Outer space, spinning, breath. It’s poetry all on its own without us having to do a thing, but of course we can’t help ourselves. “The universe” — the literal universe — isn’t easy to write about, but it always delights me to attempt it (or at least work it into something).
This poem (draft) is quite a bit more gentle — and certainly more sentimental — than is normal for me. Today, apparently, the muse has a fondness for camping.
Dear Ren, Some people talk to themselves (in their heads, out loud or in journals). Some people pray. Maybe this (blogging) is what we do.
I’m trying to be a little more open with my definition of “creating.” I’ve been fairly rigid with it my whole life; if it didn’t involve visual art or writing, I didn’t really give myself credit. What does that even mean?