Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.