A September drizzly day after a summer of drizzly days — drizzly daze — like no other in collective memory. Cultivating contemplation. Still more questions than answers, but there’s a subtle coalescence of ideas, words, convictions.
A year and more of liminal space. And a journey that’s only beginning to begin.
Drizzly Day Poem
Remote roll playing.
No, no, poetry is not dead. Nor playing possum. It drifts across the muggy morning. Wafts through autumning afternoons. A boathouse resuscitated. A rain-run meditation. Slowing. Down. Rebooting…