Seasonal Writing

I love the change of seasons.  The unpredictability of the weather.  I like to sit on the porch and watch the limbs drop from trees in the wind; I love the feel of a early sun on my shoulders.  I used to live in the elements, no heat but a stove, no central air or fans, so I have a different relationship to the weather than other modern people. 

But it is not just the weather, I think a lot now about the change of seasons.  I tend to write more and better in the winter.  I used to think that this was because I didn't have to garden then, and so I needed another outlet for creating.  Now, though, I know that I was trying to fill in the spaces left empty by the fall.  The lace work of bare trees against a gray sky, the raised beds of the garden.  In summer and spring, the work I do is all about love, lust, sex.  In the winter, I can write anything.  I think of that Neruda poem, Tonight I Can Write.   

Today, I will be outside all day.  I will be a pagan and worship the sun, the rain, whatever is thrown my way.  I will write and drink beer with large groups of people at Comfest, I will garden, I will run (and sweat, and see ghosts), I will not fear a burn because I am one with all of this.

I had better write at least one good poem…

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Filed under literature, lust and love, Musings, poetry, work, writing

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