Sunday, April 28, 2013


I woke up with a body stiff – creaky from outside work and inside neglect. But with a mind clean, clear. Tingly. Our gardens are cleaned out and prepared for tiny multiplications. The promised showers arrived this morning and my coffee on the porch is accompanied by the slow cadence of provision dripping from the eaves.

I like to think of myself as a dabbler. A dilettante. I want to be an artist despite the baggage that word drags behind it. And it appears that my medium turns out to be words. No matter how I try, words won't let me go. Words in poems. Words in songs. Words on cards and canvases and computer screens.

A jay is crying from the tree in front of me. I hear your words too my friend.

It's all in how well we listen.

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