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Thoughts on writing from a poet's point of view...
If the sky and the horizon bent properly,
I could see those paper barked birches.
Autumn -swung and knocked- swung and knocked
Oak and ash and spruce and pine and even
Evergreens
Grumbled.
Fat chirping squirrels bent trunks down.
Elasticity whip snapped shot them back up.
I crooked my neck waiting for the dome of Heaven to burst.
Home ten miles south of mine watching for Frost on the birch branches,
To shatter Coke bottle pieces on the bracken of autumn wet.
My whole young life long waiting for you to crash back down,
Back home;
You never did.
You must have found a better place for love.
You must have found a better place for love.
~ Wynn ~
I didn’t know Mary was dead.
(No one told me about Maya, either) A blank
Pause when I read about it online.
Poets don’t go out when we die.
(We live with Death while we live.)
We stay home.
Which is why when Walt said to me
(The other day)
That to die is luckier than I suppose;
I believed him.
~ Wynn ~