March 19, 2022

More gardening. Planted cannas, dug a trough into which to transplant the volunteer holly seedlings, cleaned up the bears’ mess under the lilacs. 

Poems coming unlike their coming before. When I was young it was as though my voice joined a song already sound through the air. Now it is as though I look down and pick up something strange from the dirt. I begin to pick at it, releasing it from the disguise and entanglement until something beautiful and unexpected lies in my hands.  The recent ones are effortlessly metaphysical.