Finding words lately is like trying to find flowers in winter. I circle the house and yard but there is nothing of color. Only sparse green and all dormant. There’s nothing here that I could compose a lush bouquet with. 

In light of that, I’ve been writing poetry, where a succinct word can stand as one line and do the work of many. I’m having to choose wisely which word will give testimony for the majority of my emotions. This requires refined funneling and channeling of thoughts. And yet, when it’s only a word or two you see on the frozen ground, it somehow makes do perfectly. 

I’m also seeing this tendency to hide inside the poetry, yet it’s difficult. Difficult because it’s so bare-boned and stripped back, the acoustic version leaves me nowhere to hide the parts that quiver. Can I hide the mass of my mess in one word? Can I hide my bundled-up self in my naked black walnut tree? I don’t know. You will wonder what I am doing up there. You will wonder what I am saying there. 

Winter writing is almost a chant. A mantra. Chattering of teeth. A staccato season where movement is small, sharp, and calculated. No frolicking words here. Whatever warmth comes, it is applied to my heart, not my hand. My heart requires all the heat, and my stiff hand may make out a word of it. My pen might record a faint pulse and scribble of it.