Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

 

 

Though my sabbatical doesn't officially begin until August, I've already been jotting down notes when an idea occurs to me, and writing poems and short essays--very rough first drafts of both--to not lose the germ when it strikes. For the first time in my life, I'm taking the desire to be a writer seriously. I'm being protective of my writing time. I write. This is the most recent poem. It came about after an intense, overpowering need to sketch what was swirling in my head. That sketch has been right in front of me on my desk for weeks, helping me get to this: I dreamed of you during the night, again, the fourth night in a row,   and you were walking, again, as if you’d never not walked. I remember awakening in the darkness, smiling at the notion of you showing me where you are now, your legs working fine, no MS keeping you prisoner on the burgundy leather love seat, where you sat through your days then through your nights, as if roots had somehow spr...