As New as Mint

I am a writer, with a degree in writing, and still cannot express to you the whole of my past. Nor am I meant to at this time. Life is a series of processes, not a journey with an end. I have said before that it takes decades, sometimes a life time, to write a poem. Because a poem, or a work, are just markers along the way. They are the process, and therefore, Life itself.

I took the dog out last night, and stepped into the light cast by a full moon. The ground was covered by newly fallen snow, and my breath steamed out. Max loves the snow and I love moonlight, and so we lingered as long as we could. There are so many things to see in the moonlight; the trees' shadows rest on one another, and cut across the ground. The shadows are the same color as the color of the mountains on a winter clear day, in this corner of the world. They are called the Blue Ridge, and another lovely name, Shenandoah. It's a liquid sounding word handed down to us by Native Americans, and it rightfully fits such a beautiful march of mountains.

I have been busy thinking about my writing, and where I want to go with it. I have refound my senior portfolio, but no one is published in poetry unless you're Charles Burkowski, a legendary poet of the alcoholic variety, and his ilk. Cane by Jean Toomer, an African American poet of the '20's, is a lovely example of how to sneak your poetry into your writing enough to be published. But I think my best writing is about nature, and my travels.