This poem was born as a note roughly scribbled in a notebook. I wrote it from deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota, as I drank coffee on the porch and marveled at how loud the silence was. i close the door and exhale
Perhaps it was the way I sat there – hands alert over laptop keys as birds welcomed in the first morning light – that finally drove inspiration away.
In the monotony of our snowy February, I received a poetry prompt: write about first love. In spite of the looming holiday, I was quite unsentimental. Until, that is, I watched the birds outside my dining room window, who sacrificed themselves for the chance of wild flight. Here is a eulogy for the wild winged… Read More
I want to hold a thing with history;