In the mornings I read. Often it’s poetry, for even rough poetry can soothe my brain and soul.
(I just heard that Mary Oliver died today. It was her poetry that I read this morning.)
I believe in poetry. It touches the world. Sometimes soft, sometimes brutal, and anywhere in between. But the touch is the thing.
Prose creates a world and invites you in. Sometimes there is poetry here, but it is not a given.
Information requires a willingness to reanimate the dead. Stale and dry unless you put the spirit in.
Poetry is rhythm and metaphor. It is the heartbeat and soul that makes for life.
When I write, it is exercising. The heart pounds to the beat of spirit and blood and word.
If I have done well, I can almost feel the patterns of the universe. Even when things feel bleak.