And then, cup of tea, book in hands one night,
I thought, I'd read than write.
Writing, it seems, is for me.
It's too much like trying to be a
the ones that came before do it so well.
Trying to be a tree: a living hell
In cool, wild forests that tease and delight,
those trees grow and stretch into shapes just right.
And there’s me, knees digging into the earth,
Looking up at the forest’s canopy.
I exist in shadow. I eat, drink, love,
hate. I run in the dark. I'll be Keats’ dull
star, steadfast, assured, living a life full.
There will never be an empty winter.