I question the form of my blooming in a slow growth season. It’s not that I don’t seek a little running sap in life anymore, change, another miracle of 3-day resurrection, re-planting in the soil of my circumstances. It’s not that I’m anywhere near worn & worried to the bone, quite the opposite, in fact. I’m no longer terribly afraid. I’ve met my invisible cartoon cave monsters and splashed them with paint. Evidence shows, I’ll meet them again. My questions are not about dread, or death (although April has become synonymous with loss these last few years…and each day could always be the last day. We know and don’t know this!). I hold up a torch and peer into the dark cave daily. Daily. Looking for all the little monsters and angels that make me one self. That make up this world. I carve a path to find what blooms there. I whittle, I shape, I cleave, I hack, slash, and I sculpt. By entering the dark, it’s possible to change it. I can do this. I can also wipe my brow and laugh up at the sun. Perhaps these blank pages are the cave, these poems, a scythe. Another new beginning. Next right work.
Early Morning Poems 