Still Here

Still.
Here.

Still, as in remaining. Left. Leftover. Residual and residing, the evidence of having been before and carrying on, continuation if not continuity. Here at this desk, at this laptop, on this planet, in this plane.

And still, as in without motion. Not in any small way. In small ways, the constant dance. Eyesight and breath, the chambers of the heart incessant. But the body in one place. In this house. On this hill. 

We have moved to the country, and in this larger place I will, I can, stay with my body and go with my mind. 

Before the move, writing was a struggle and a secondary concern. I scrambled to have something to bring to the two critique groups from whom I receive so much inspiration and support. Now, I write at least a little every morning, at a desk that overlooks our property and the hills and trees beyond. The natural world will be more present than ever in my work, as it is more present than ever in my life. I am starting a review for a fellow poet in the county, I am going to be a featured reader at a reading next month with an esteemed Poet Laureate - so much to prepare for that! - and I am ready, after what has been an overlong hiatus, to send poems out into the world, bring new poems into the world, and try to compile a full-length manuscript. Hello again, unknown and invisible readers.