November 17, 2012
After reading only a few pages of Mark Doty's Still Life With Oysters and Lemon, it's already as though my vision has been equipped with a wide-angle lens.
On my way back from Northwords Writers group this morning, I think of a revision for my poem we'vs just discussed. Pulling the car into the first public parking place on my way, I reach for paper and pen, and begin to write, only to glance up and notice a tree, park, and river setting more picturesque than I might have expected. Thankful for the prompt, I throw in a less-than-amateur sketch of the tree. Its branches diverge like fantastic fingers, leaflorn twiggy appendages spread like a sigh, or a welcoming cry, toward the sun-pierced, November sky. (It's all in how you look at it, right?)
After reading only a few pages of Mark Doty's Still Life With Oysters and Lemon, it's already as though my vision has been equipped with a wide-angle lens.
On my way back from Northwords Writers group this morning, I think of a revision for my poem we'vs just discussed. Pulling the car into the first public parking place on my way, I reach for paper and pen, and begin to write, only to glance up and notice a tree, park, and river setting more picturesque than I might have expected. Thankful for the prompt, I throw in a less-than-amateur sketch of the tree. Its branches diverge like fantastic fingers, leaflorn twiggy appendages spread like a sigh, or a welcoming cry, toward the sun-pierced, November sky. (It's all in how you look at it, right?)
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