When a blank screen glares its white light at me and I feel I have nothing more to say— I take a walk.
The soft blue ridges of the mountains undulate politely, a backdrop to my daily view, their color deepens with distance, never jagged, never intruding.
Their beauty steals my breath, sends it drifting like a whisper through the morning mist, threaded with the tang of woodsmoke from a distant farm, curling around stone until the sun burns it away.
I take my stick and climb. No need to rush the summit. I stand gazing, listening—
a faint bell carries from the valley, and I wonder about the dreams of those in the town below;
a hawk leaps from the ledge, rides the wind, searching for life far beneath.
I write about loss, memory, and the strange humor that keeps us alive. My poems wander between grief and the grace of nature, often pausing to laugh at life.
