I went through a period once when I felt like I was dying. I wasn’t writing any poetry, and I felt that if I couldn’t write I would split. I was recording in my journal, but no poems came. I know now that this period was a transition in my life. The next year, I went back to my journal, and here were these incredible poems I could almost lift out of it. …These poems came right out of the journal. But I didn’t see them as poems then.
I’m still here. Still writing…at least in my journal and in my work. Trusting that one day this seemingly fallow period for fiction will show itself to be more like fertilizer for some future endeavor.
Spring came late to New England this year, but, still, it came.