Shanna Compton


Morning on the couch, midday in the woods, afternoon in the coffee shop. Chose several beautiful (but wildish, hardy) native plants from the fundraiser at the wildflower preserve. Then I read about a year's worth from this sprawling cache of draft poems, deciding what to finish, what might be mined, what should be abandoned. I guess this is the way I work, because I remember this process—write, but don't look back, until there's enough collected. I still have a few more years to get through, in this stash. I don't know, the weather's changed, hasn't it. I can smell the thunderstorm, hear it rumbling, watch it rearrange the light.

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