They approach in hungry morning light, treading the path to the ridge and the row of giant’s teeth grown crooked with the ages

Chad, an aspiring author, sank into his easy chair and drifted into a
reverie.

Writing is both a way of making life more liveable and of making ourselves more whole. Words have a being-ness: when we write poetry, we tap into a network of resonances.

I am all hair, glittering with diamond-glass. A forehead streaked with blood, rubies and roses crisscrossing the tangerine flaps of a ripped collar.

calm river
again, his fishing line
caught on a tree

lightning flashes
everyone stands
still

end-of-day catch
our wicker basket full
of salmon sunset

With every book I sell, with every piece of clothing I give away . . .

how do I begin?