Gray Days

Gray gloom
meets mid-winter mourn:
these deaddark days
demand
light-cresting waves,
flickering within lit heart,
reflecting dawn
as she breaks
earth's choking gloom.
Breath and blood thaw
cold's icy doom.

On Finding the Right Words

When I work on a poem with this kind of weight, it feels like I am chiseling stone instead of molding clay. Believe me, I am much more comfortable molding clay. Still, the fun is in the play. I try out words, toss them aside, pick them back up again, and realize how one small change, from “grounded” to “lit” or from “melt” to “thaw,” can shift everything. The weight may be real, but the process is joyfully messy.