April 7, 2020
I sat on the deck and looked out at a yard that yesterday was completely white. I thought I heard rain in the middle of the night, but I had no idea that I'd wake up to see winter washed away.
I remember some poem about spring that mentioned a little goat-footed balloonman. We took it in Grade 9. I couldn't understand its meaning, but I got the feel of it. I think that's why I like poetry. It's word-juggling and precision-placing of words and syllables until things just fit into the only place they can. A palette of words on a page is kind of like colours in a painting.
I'm feeling like I'd like to try and paint on a canvas. It would be a huge step to move from my safe sketchbook, but I'm hearing a call. It's not like I'm doing anything these days. Maybe I'll write a poem. In the meantime, here's a Poet Tree.
I sat on the deck and looked out at a yard that yesterday was completely white. I thought I heard rain in the middle of the night, but I had no idea that I'd wake up to see winter washed away.
I'm feeling like I'd like to try and paint on a canvas. It would be a huge step to move from my safe sketchbook, but I'm hearing a call. It's not like I'm doing anything these days. Maybe I'll write a poem. In the meantime, here's a Poet Tree.
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