poetry

I went to a poetry workshop this evening and read a poem from this blog, and tomorrow I will read "Open Sky." I don't consider myself a poet, but still. Words seem to diffuse the pain; somehow they soften the blow. Perhaps, the act of creation helps smooth my rough edges.

I cried when I read, in front of people I had just met. Whatever. I don't care. Perhaps my words will help ease someone else's pain. Perhaps sharing my experience can soften their rough edges.

I don't know. It's late and the summer crawls along. I weed and water and try to train my sister's horse. I sleep a lot and have read a bunch of books. Diversions. Tricks to tick the tock and survive the day.

Nik's poppies have blossomed and yellow lillies brighten his garden. The rock walkway is almost complete and I made a rough start on the wall. I can't move the heaviest rocks. And Nik's not here to help me.