Dear Friends,

As the horror of Russian bombs raining down on Ukrainian civilians continues, I'm finding it difficult to write new poems.

I'm in a kind of wordless, speechless state. Time is strangely fluid. Memories of the "before" time: before the pandemic; before the grinding, daily insanity of this insane war.

I don't want to go back. I want to go forward, to the better world we were supposed to be creating right now, after all the hard lessons of the last 2 years.

I'd be lying to you if I said I feel any sense of "balance" today. All I can do is leave you with a poem I've already written. I know the seed of the new is there in the old; the natural world renewing itself reminds me of that. I'm trying to pay attention to its lesson.


Spring Equinox – March 20, 2022

Leaf-flutter accompanies
the new season's smell --
cattle's pungent body odor,
the scent warm stone gives off,
damp earth's tang.
A difference in light summons
memory, slow warmth,
the sharp edge
of an unnamed longing, the ache
of some forgotten obligation
The work of a gradual transformation
quickens, slides through cracks
in this enclosure or enters openly by window or by door, Conchobor,
the tyrant king can't lock out
this intruder Spring; ubiquitous,
its subversive changes
From "IN THE BECOMING: Poems on the Deirdre Story"