November 2, 2020
One of the greatest joys of my life is to be able to write. When the words arrive, the adrenalin actually begins to pump and I go into the “zone”, completely absorbed by my work. For days I will recall lines and refashion them, until weeks after, the poem finishes itself and must be released from the potential forever of rewriting.
Immortality
The leaves are streaming down
and press lightly against my face –
a slight detour on the intake of breath
before drifting to their final place
in the forest-order of things —
not just underfoot where
they will be ground up or swept away
but to the light: detached and free
but still communal, without
argument or competition,
weaving their bodies together
to fashion a firm, burnished, calico mat —
the next nourishing molecular stage
not so far off now.
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