It’s as necessary to listen to rain, and then to go for a walk in it, as it is to sit down with pen and notebook. I’m writing a poem in hope of unraveling my thoughts about the shootings in Atlanta this week. Imagine how snarled up those thoughts are for many, between experience and confusion, and history and the present pain, making for endless afternoons of frustration that ease only into dispirited evenings. A poem can cut the thread of thought, letting the spirit follow the memory of evening swallows. No snarls, only renewal of hope.
If you want to make a poem…
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