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.
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.
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?
So that’s a rocket. It’s here to “launch” me on my way to reaching my writing goals for this year. Yes, that’s right: I’ve started 2016 off with a really bad pun, and I’m not even sorry.