Writing Hides

Writing hides in the fluffed tail of the fox
and the crushed grass under the spruce
where the fox rested for an hour.

It hides in the earthy smell of the dirt
and the miniscule celeriac seeds in the packet
that I cradle in the seed trays.

Writing hides in the browned patches of grass
and the broken lily stems in the rock garden
where the snow is slowly receding.

It hides in the earlier rise of the sun
and the lavender light on the mountain
as Spring makes its way north.

This morning’s thinking-about-writing with Georgia Heard’s book asks, “Where does writing hide?” The chapter starts with Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” which I have loved since the first time it was read to me. It was my Valentine’s Day poem for my students every year, and then we wrote our own versions. Today’s is my most recent incarnation–some ideas never get too old to explore. I love that this is different every time I write it. This was an especially comforting writing today, since it’s snowing again.

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3 thoughts on “Writing Hides

  1. Lee

    I guess I got behind. I read your Fox poem in my email and now this beauty is here. I love how this begins with that vivid image from the last poem. (Btw, I also love the poem about the fox returning and sleeping in your yard. I could picture the whole thing. Even you possibly thinking how much getting older sucks as the crouching became more and more uncomfortable.

    Hey, why aren’t you doing this SOL challenge? You would love it! I curse it.

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  2. titang0415 Post author

    You are too funny!
    You’re right; I was thinking about the whole knees-aging thing, and wondering if the fox could hear my knees cracking. I was afraid I’d scare him away.
    Thanks for commenting–it’s a great shot of adrenaline for the urge to keep writing!

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