
Poetry
Stepping Back
Sometimes peace begins where our need for answers ends. The room grows still, the noise recedes, the branches I let go…

Poetry
A poem rarely arrives in a hurry. It waits — at the edge of the desk, in the pause before sleep, in the gap between what I meant to say and what I actually meant.
“I did not write it. I only stopped long enough for it to sit down.”
And when it comes it is never the line I expected. It is smaller, truer, and considerably less flattering. That is usually how I know it is worth keeping.
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Poetry
Sometimes peace begins where our need for answers ends. The room grows still, the noise recedes, the branches I let go…

Poetry
A note on why some poems are only finished when they are spoken, and what the mouth knows that the eye does not.