Written for Monday night’s haibun at dVerse.
Regarding poetry writing, I am a late bloomer. Fiction ruled my heart and mind although I loved words and rhythm and sound. Poetry was like a mystical voice, too enigmatic to undertake until I found poetry by Neruda, Mary Oliver, and Jane Kenyon, such different voices whispering to me, yet each echoing a love of words. Beautiful, hungry words.
Today, it’s only Mary Oliver whose poems I read over and over, sharing her affinity for nature, wishing I could weave the webs she does with philosophy so subtly strewn in natural history so the “aha” is never far away. Perhaps it is easier if you have farmland and a pond where egrets and heron stand one-legged or hear the croak of night’s bullfrogs or the screech of the pale-faced owl, where the fog hovers until burned away by the rising sun, and not the constant thrum of traffic on a beltway of congestion and dissonance.
Robins evening choir.
Yellow daffodils budding
despite new spring snow.
Despite tomorrow being the first day of Spring we are going to have winter weather. Like 2017, February was spring and March is winter.