image from dreamstime.com
I used to think poems began with words. Now I believe they begin much earlier~ in the pause before speech, in the moment a leaf loosens from a branch, in river light sliding across water, in the faint fragrance of lavender remembered long after the bloom. The world is always speaking. Not loudly. Not in proclamations. But in small invitations scattered along the day~ a shadow lingering where afternoon once stood, a bird turning homeward, an old photograph waiting inside a drawer. The spirit notices. It leans toward what others pass by. It lingers. It listens. And sometimes through grace I cannot explain~ something unseen gathers itself into language. A line arrives. Then another. Not as possession, but as gift. Not made from me, but moving through me, as though God had hidden a spark of wonder inside the ordinary and trusted me to find it. So I follow. One image. One silence. One small astonishment at a time. And what begins as listening becomes a poem.
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