It's no small wonder to me that I wrote my first poem in nearly a year while walking a little more than two miles alone on a pleasant Autumn afternoon.
The vast majority of my poetry was written while I was on third shift for nearly 20 years. Those quiet times in the wee hours when nothing was broken or planned were perfect for it.
First shift in a riled up pandemic era is just way too much noise for an artistic soul to see the precious things in life through a time of inner reflection that has no time to exist.
That and this little chatterbox in its hip holster is both a blessing and a curse. I wish we were still only using laptops and desktops sometimes.
How is everyone?