Without great solitude no serious work is possible.
I seem to find it in odd places.
In repetition, shape, and color.
In collections of mindless things.
and knitting with sets of needles that have passed
though some strangers fingers into mine.
What did they make?
Whos lives did they touch?
Where used nature guides are filled with old notes.
Looking for bits of nature to haul in the house
from under the snow.
Watching the light change.
Where do you find it?