I used to write lots of poetry. Poetry was what first drew me into the dream of being a writer. Poetry is my writing mother, and at her breast I nursed on the words of Whitman, Dickinson, Frost, and Kerouac.
It’s been years since I have really written poetry. I have missed it.
My friend Andi Cumbo asked me to write a guest post for her during her vacation. I was going to write something brilliant about how none of us ever emerge as a fully formed writer, but rather are constantly being formed in our writing. However, when I sat down to write the damn thing, the damnedest thing happened: I began writing a poem about the work and the words of the writing life.
Work the words.
Work the words when your heart is heavy, when your skin crawls with sorrow, and when your fingers ache with bone crushing anger. Work the words when you have nothing but weight and grief and the searing passion that comes from knowing the injustice in the world…
Andi always has such good words to share about writing, farming, and life. I am honored in such a special way to share her space today. Hope you will click over, read my poem, and start exploring her words (and some other fabulous guest posts from this week).