A love poem for the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. Started out with the winter solstice. Ended up in the bedroom. Ooops!
Even the solstice is a trick, using its promise of light as a Trojan horse to sneak in winter. My own belly is full of potatoes. In quarantine, I’ve been perfecting home fries and counting blessings.
They brought me the sort of joy I hadn’t felt in a while, and it caught me off guard. It seemed like a gift. Yes, I understand it to be a chance encounter that had nothing to do with me, but I came away from it feeling more dreamy than I had in months.
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.
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.