The pull of seasons is upon us, and we respond just as the earth and animals and all other living things, despite our grand intelligence that is no match for it.
I’ve been thinking in poetic form and that, I’m sure is being encouraged by the warmer days of short but penetrating rays of sun. Compression in my words and thoughts, flowing text like brooks thawed with broken icy edges running off downstream. I cannot think a common thought; it whirls and colors and jumps in glee to come out mystery instead of simply stated.
The poems are hiding, too unprepared for purpose in the real world, so they must not be read aloud. Spring rains bring cleansing but also damage the whitewashed layers of the fence.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology