I go through phases of writing, sometimes not writing for months on end and then diving headfirst into it only to surface weeks later.
No doubt, living in a yurt (especially in winter) affords plenty of time to sit and write and think and look out the window at the snow — or, in the case of this winter, slush and ice and “wintry mix.”
Recently I wrote a poem for each month of the year. This one here’s about January and whatnot:
JANUARY
The year begins without grandeur
or distinction, a clear continuation
of the last. Still, the days
are getting longer, if imperceptibly,
and this bodes well. The snow
is accumulating. Everything is
accumulating. At once there is joy
in the present: the silence,
the soft and the still, the small
footprints in the snow of rabbits
and foxes and chipmunks and something
we can’t discern. There is a whole
year buried under there and we learn
how to make new tracks.
More to come. Maybe I’ll also share these little things on our Instagram. Stay tuned for February, the shortest month…
