The days are longer now. Typically I’ve shed my winter wool, placed warmer-weather clothes front and center, but the heat is on, and there’s a freeze-warning for tonight. The cherry blossoms have passed. The grass around the tree looks as if it’s been snowed upon with pinkish-hued white petals. My breath curls upward, white. Traffic on the beltway flows, such a winter sound in deep cold, reaches me, the steady hum like ocean waves.
It struck me how odd it was, while walking my dog, bundling myself in my coat, that light still lingered. I never could remember being wrapped so tightly so late in the evening with dusk hovering, the sun setting mauve, and robins caroling.
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. Continue reading →