a season of buts. i'm unsettled but i'm dry. i'm quiet but i'm writing. the other day i wrote a small poem over most of a day, reworking its nine lines and the rhythms until the whole thing rings like a bell. the balance and pull of internal sounds. getting back to what i feel my poems should be.
just finished kiki petrosino's "bright". now i'm reading a book about the sea. early mornings i saw away at my fiddle. after work, after i make us supper, i work at guitar. right now: bach, molinaro, luis milan. working until it's under the fingers, accepting that in a month or two, it'll begin to fade.
strong coffee in the mornings. darkness in my basement office. the dogs asleep in their bed, curled up together, our day interrupted briefly at noon for a walk. this is, i find, the hardest point of the year. or maybe just the most quiet. head down, hunker down, just under two months till spring.