Dear Readers,
The distances we travel aren’t just measured in numbers. They are also measured in terms of who we become, the tectonic shifts that happen within us. As a writer/poet, I cannot stay where I was when I started out. Not just in terms of how I view my journey but also in terms of what I want from it. This trajectory should lean inwards and if it doesn’t, at least I don’t think writing has done the right kind of service where I’m concerned.
In this world of creation, which is a bubble of its own making, inspiration flows freely. But so does insecurity, doubt, comparison. That’s the time to look within and read all the beautiful verses poets have left behind, for there’s a purpose we all carry in this world. It would be nice to identify that, a unique calling meant only for us.
On to today’s poem. Thank you for reading.
BECAUSE I CANNOT BE SPRING
Because I cannot be spring
shall I stop being winter too?
Where goes, then,
the murmur of flakes,
what happens
to the mist that hangs
by me, the brooding clouds
combing ribbons of sunlight
on a nipping morn.
Where go
the waiting blooms
waking in their own time,
the nabobs of stillness.
What of the deep breaths
idling in long smoke rings?
Should they go, too,
because they aren’t spring?
And because I cannot be spring
shall I stop being the hush
of winter solstice? The crunch
of snow, the flicker in the hearth,
the quiet reckoning where me
meets me.
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A Hundred Quills 
Wow, Sonia! The imagery in this poem is just breathtaking. I’m awestruck!
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