I’m 72 poems into my next collection. As usual, only about 50 will make the cut, which means I want to write 90 or so, to create a good variety to cull from.
I’ve moved through a quiet period in my writing this winter—I stopped going to my weekly writing group on Sundays, just took notes as ideas and thoughts surfaced, and wrote down dreams, like these—
I wear shoes that cause hurricanes … I can change the colors of walls by singing … I am talking in sign language and it turns into hula … I am creating huge, human-sized, stained glass insect wings for a gallery show …
I think dreams are letters from myself, to myself.