Winter Long

[rowens]

I find bridges in the seasons. I can share the air, and truly feel, as if through a portal, a Russian or Swedish or Danish landscape when my own resembles it, especially covered by snow or night. I live as a participate in a folktale. . . . But to get to the poem: And this is just in general: Because there isn't much to say about the poem itself. Which love, or love in general. I could explode in all the directions from which this poem came, but it's all in there anyway. . . . But there's always tension that forces me to write. I know two women, one I write wild, exploding poems about, about the other I write poems that are warm and concise. Because that's how they make me feel. But they both leave me shattered and scattering and spreading like a forest fire. . . . Luckily, I'm apparently impossible to be around for long periods of time, and not made of longterm relationship material, so there are these long spaces, long periods of poetry-producing tension and explosions.