I wrote a little spring poem last week, with a room full of people who were also mostly writing spring poems. It was a guided exercise where we wrote words associated with a place, and other people added words to our lists that they thought matched the originals, and then we wrote something using their words rather than our own. This was in the midst of my last weekend with the thesis, a pleasantly interactive and scribbly evening to interrupta lot of last-minute neurosis. Sans scribbles, my (revised) anticipatory pasque flower place poem:
The river is restless. Cold
breeze greets new flowers
in constant push-pull with the sun’s warmth,
the scent of pollen and decay.
Squirrels dance slinky lines through spruce branches.
My clumsy foot
kicks my coffee, a brown stream
over tundra, bound for the river.
(Thanks to Nicole Stellon O’Donnell!)