Here in Vermont, it’s stick season, the interval between leaves and snow. The trees’ branches splay out and their bare bones let us see what was hidden. Today, rain blackens the trunks and branches, creating stark sculptures. Out my studio window, it looks like Louise Nevelson planted sculptures along the riverbank.
Poems belong to stick season. I start with phrases that capture what I am trying to convey. As I work with the words, I strip away adjectives that weigh the poem down. I drop anything that doesn’t move the poem forward and try to distill the poem down to its bones. Then the light shines through.