It's been a pretty vulnerable and raw process, I have to say. You don't just get to write when you have an idea or when you feel moved to write. You have to open yourself up every day to generate something, and I've been in awe of how productive that process can be (and there have been a few crap poems along the way, let's not be coy.)
today's NY Times word of the day is bevy, which is a flock of birds. Specifically a bevy can also be a large collection of people or things, but I thin the flock of birds will be where I go.
she tries to spell mountain because it's snowing there. technically, she's incorrect, but we are still impressed by the closeness. it's impossible to hold her in. we've learned. we are learning. scattershot. holed. she crumbles into piles if you set her off. yes, you. you will set her. sometimes you don't belong here. we can live every day from this place of light.
she is still learning how to ask questions. I'm thirsty. I'm broken a little on the inside. I can't find my shoes. we coach her: what do you need? ask me.
where does that shadow come from, the one that travels across the field?
its a murder of crows, flying through the clearing.
where do you go when you disappear?
to the place where it's dark and quiet. I always see your face.
why are you crying?
because of tears and water and the shadow that's still moving away.
why are you the strong one?
because I am the strong one.
what will I see when I close my eyes?
only the shapes you allow yourself to recognize.