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…