I found myself crying at the endof a movie about writing poetry,and promised to write more poems.I’ve felt small, unable to addressthe fear and artifice and wonderthat adds up in frequently unequalmeasure to make a life. The catsits on my lap as my family sleeps.Fingers twined in her fur, I wonderabout sleep and dreams and beingawake at this time in human history.I’m still thinking about the movie,and figure so long as I’m hereI should document the hell out of it.So I start with this February morning:coffee, cat, a promise to write poems.
Sharing in the Imaginary Garden on The Tuesday Platform.