Dust of Snow
by Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Writing is often spontaneous. If we are lucky the words come unbidden. For me, once an essay or poem is written I'm on to the next thing. I don't dwell on past poems or imagine someone reading what I've written. So having a friend show up many years later because of what I've written here gave me pause. Her return was gentle, leaving the door open for "no" if I should choose not to renew our friendship. We tentatively walked around the edges of our dropped friendship:
Yes, we gardened.
Yes, I'm fine.
Yes, I'm making things.
No, I'm not writing.
Which brings me to the one truth I've avoided. I have not been writing. At all. And it is okay. I know in the depth of me that the words, the feelings, the ideas will return. I hope they return in a massive flood.
Instead of looking at the world as a smorgasbord of possibilities to write about, I have been living. Still observant, but not taking notes or thinking, Oh that would make a stellar line or a perfect title. Even admitting this is embarrassing. I'm a writer. Writers write.
That my friend found me here and enjoyed what I'd shared about being a virgin gardener, made me consider my place it the vast ocean of poets and writers. We are each one small drop in that ocean, but we are all necessary. What we have to say does matter. What YOU have to say matters.
Welcoming the first day of winter with below freezing temperatures is exciting. I love changing weather patterns. And I've vowed to use this hunkering down season as a private writing retreat. Three months of Denver snow and ice and quiet. Winter is a gift for writers.
I'll let you know if the words return in dribs and drabs or in a major flood of metaphors and line breaks. It isn't magic, it is work; but if we are truthful, being in the flow of the unknown sometimes feels magical. May 2023 bring you whatever magic you've put aside for later. An endless stack of work. And enough money to pay your heating bill.
Colette
December, 2022
Please visit tigerseyepoet.com for news about Tiger's Eye Press
by Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Writing is often spontaneous. If we are lucky the words come unbidden. For me, once an essay or poem is written I'm on to the next thing. I don't dwell on past poems or imagine someone reading what I've written. So having a friend show up many years later because of what I've written here gave me pause. Her return was gentle, leaving the door open for "no" if I should choose not to renew our friendship. We tentatively walked around the edges of our dropped friendship:
Yes, we gardened.
Yes, I'm fine.
Yes, I'm making things.
No, I'm not writing.
Which brings me to the one truth I've avoided. I have not been writing. At all. And it is okay. I know in the depth of me that the words, the feelings, the ideas will return. I hope they return in a massive flood.
Instead of looking at the world as a smorgasbord of possibilities to write about, I have been living. Still observant, but not taking notes or thinking, Oh that would make a stellar line or a perfect title. Even admitting this is embarrassing. I'm a writer. Writers write.
That my friend found me here and enjoyed what I'd shared about being a virgin gardener, made me consider my place it the vast ocean of poets and writers. We are each one small drop in that ocean, but we are all necessary. What we have to say does matter. What YOU have to say matters.
Welcoming the first day of winter with below freezing temperatures is exciting. I love changing weather patterns. And I've vowed to use this hunkering down season as a private writing retreat. Three months of Denver snow and ice and quiet. Winter is a gift for writers.
I'll let you know if the words return in dribs and drabs or in a major flood of metaphors and line breaks. It isn't magic, it is work; but if we are truthful, being in the flow of the unknown sometimes feels magical. May 2023 bring you whatever magic you've put aside for later. An endless stack of work. And enough money to pay your heating bill.
Colette
December, 2022
Please visit tigerseyepoet.com for news about Tiger's Eye Press
