Wet after showers all night and a balmy breeze blowing through our walk. The mallards startled from the brooks. An owl winged from tree to tree. The red wing blackbird sang in the brush by the river. A yellow warbler sang too. We spent a long time in the meadow, in the mud and muck of the wetlands at the still and quiet river where the beavers cut the trees. A light rain was falling on us, and we took our time. From the trestle bridge I stood and looked down into the river at this curious rock or stone piling just under the surface. This rock reminds me of how an idea or a feeling or a poem lies waiting, fully formed but out of reach, just beneath the surface of consciousness. It might come, it might not. Today I found so many things to love and appreciate and be curious about on my walk.
It's a beautiful mystery, the way a poem finds its way into the a writer's consciousness. . . and then. . . when it finds its way into publication, how it reaches an editor's eyes, how it is chosen, selected among the countless is also mysterious and very satisfying. Grateful to Palooka editor Jonathan Starke for choosing my poems, including Pinked: