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Obfuscation. Recently a reader (okay, my little brother) mentioned that the prologues for the poems are getting longer and longer, and the poems themselves appear shorter, and perhaps a bit rushed. This is true. I’m worn out.

It’s also true that without the preamble, some of them don’t make a whole lot of sense.  The Obfuscationist poets, we decided to call the school. You’ll get meaning when I give it to you, and not before. Joking. But, really, that conversation got me to thinking about what I really want to put into the world. Pretty and tricksy wordplay? or a startling image that punches you straight in the brain and makes you see something mundane in new and haunting way? The latter, I think, but I struggle with imagism, not the reading of it, but with the writing. It is hard for me not to play around with metaphor and word sounds.

Okay, so I’m not going to explain this one. I’m going to hope it speaks for itself. Gah. It’s not as fun this way. But, if it works, then it could be a handy trick.

The Snow in Late April

I am done wringing my hands at the sky. The snow in late April dropping fast, fat eyes of the dead falling, roots me still, stuck as windowpane, motionless and apart. Out there I hear the long sounds, the train, followed by the treefrog without chorus, and last the cow, low as a funeral. Struck still and empty before by the falling that makes the earth push up and roots me firm until the storm lightens. When the sky’s gone hopeful again, how will I weather it?


That was the hardest poem ever. I’ve been grappling with it, trying to force something out of this one moment, and it was horrible. I messed with the process, and I’m not thrilled. I must need to write my way into them. So, that’s what I’m going to do. Tomorrow. Goodnight, Happy Wednesday!