The first bear came down from
the mountain today. Porcupines
graze by the trail.The air tastes of the forest
trying to bloom. Icicles melt, quick
percussive drip off the eaves.On the high New Mexico desert,
your ashes and bits of bone
rest pale in the red dirt.I bring home hothouse daisies,
tulips, daffodils in green
buckets. Rain falls, falls.
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@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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