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Kansas field, plowed



To paraphrase American poet Jack Gilbert, I’m not a professional of poetry; instead, I'm a farmer of poetry. I harvest what life has sown for me: love, grief, awe, elation, melancholy, the imprint of time and place—and a bumper crop of stubborn longing for what I know I must, in the end, let go. 

Often, after writing a poem, I am spent. I return to the safe patterns of daily life, clueless as to when, or if, another poem will come to me.


Sometimes, I worry that I have nothing else to say, and I realize I may get to that point someday. But so far, if I cultivate moments of separation from the cyber-hyped world we inhabit, if I sit down with paper and pen and find a way to plow beneath the surface, I can still surprise myself.

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