The requests for work are pouring in faster than I can write. It's very difficult for me because I've never aspired to be a professional writer. I'm a poet. And mostly that entails waiting for poems to show up. I don't know where they come from. They just do.
It the midst of what has become a busy life, I had this brief moment Easter Sunday where I tuned everything out, turned everything off, and got out the old tools... a pen and paper. Holidays are good for writing and reflection because most of the outside world seems to stop. I played some Bach and for over an hour just wrote poetry. Most of it was awful. of course almost all of the poetry I have written is awful, but the long process of continuing to write, edit, and cull some gems out of the refuse eventually yields results. I think I produced one gem Sunday. A haiku.
Lean into me, small
things. I am now the big thing
propped up by love.
Then I felt good. It's National Poetry Month, and it's quite possible i won't write another line of poetry this month, maybe not even this year. I don't intentionally write poetry. It just shows up. less than it used to, but enough that I still feel I can call myself a poet.