I find it much easier to write in the winter, when it is cold and dark and I am driven indoors. Summer is far too overpowering, both to the mind and the senses, to allow for much creative work. Still, I putter on, though I find that I do most of my summer puttering at night.
Summer Muse
In winter, words flow like the chill
that clambers at the window sill
and looks to undermine the hand
against the roaring grill,
and inspiration, ever rife,
is bedded, as a tender wife;
the moments make their own demand
upon a dormant life.
But in the summer, what a spell
of arid thirst. An empty well
and desiccate expanse of sand
suppresses, in a swell
of heat and sun and humid light,
such words the hand would hope to write,
and so I wait, alone, unmanned,
my muse upon the night.
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2 comments:
When I fly South for the Winter, as you know I must, like all good Crane-wives---then you will have time to return to your other lover, I suppose.
it's strange but true - summer is for living, winter for reflecting. love the pace of this one, and "heat and sun and humid light" - that's it, exactly.
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