Hm. Poetry sits thick in fingertips that refuse to surrender what they're thinking. It's because I'm thinking that I cannot write. My fingers don't think and when I actually let them write they make up nice stuff. When I am doing the writing I make up garbage and sometimes I get confused--where did that come from? Where did the deep poems go?
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Thanksgiving: is over :(. Zak and I returned north with heavy hearts, leaving family behind in a house in a valley with streets I have known my entire life but it took moving away for me to realize I'd never grow tired of them. Of it. Of the places I know and walking/driving/go-going and running into everyone--into the constant Familiar (face, person, circumstance, location) that triggers memories--which are neither good nor bad are just memory--and are Home.
I miss. Home. And I just left yesterday morning.
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There's a new poem here for your perusal: Poem | Blog
Christmas is coming. The turkeys can relax. The goose begins to sweat.
1 comment:
I'm so sad that we missed each other! I went to my home, while you went to yours...
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