Dispatches from the writing life here in Michigan, inspired by what's happening on the page and on the land. Making space for things that root a creative practice, especially nature, myth, reading, and poetry.
The journey changed after that. It may sound hyperbolic, but the truth is, I think the poems were checking whether I had any vision for the body of work. Whether I had been noticing the whole while following the parts. In this midst of this, I laid the poems on the floor in the newest order I was "orchestrating" at that moment. And I found myself back at the perennial question: Is this whole?
I hadn’t thought about how private her work is, or how the journey of the bones exists within her own space. She goes out into the wilderness alone. She is not searching for something perfect or whole. She’s only looking for a nub of bone. Maybe a knee cap. Something that might hinge together the rest of the parts.
In the middle of the meadow that stretches in front of our future house, we came across a forgotten bird's nest. I don't know what kind of bird had made this nest or the type of bush the nest had been so carefully attached to. The land is another kind of neighborhood where I don't know many of the neighbors yet. I know the hawk, the heron, the willows, and the bur oaks best so far. But it's a meager knowing for now, and every time we walk, I learn how much I don't know.