Even from this winter cave, I feel the language of wilderness sweet upon the tongue. Chewing in my sleep. Belly rumbling amidst hibernation.
Visions are ripe with memories of late summer and early fall. But really, it’s these mountains that give beck and call. I can see their effect in every typewritten syllable.
Poems about love. Poems about work. Poems about longing for the familiar. Somehow in every turn of phrase, nature enters.
I’ve been beginning to dream again. With winter, comes a deeper sleep. But this year feels kind of different. With hope on the horizon, the mind is given space to drift and wander. Manic creations come to me in the middle eve and as I tap the keys the typewriter becomes a total dream machine full of wonder.
Ode to the psychic blues of mid-morning. Hail the passing clouds of mid-winter. Oh, how the warmth of the eternal fire spits and sputters life to find new immediate comic relief from the perpetual clutter.
It’s a long golden road to write a poem. For the last few weeks, I’ve forged each poem by the warmth of the fire. Locked away in my creative cabin south of town, the words spill outwards. I am warmed by them and so are you. To connect through this verse is to create the day anew.