Poetry, for me, is connection. It is made of breath and observation and words, which are transformed in the gut and brain of the poet, the hottest smelter available for refining meaning. My suggestion today: Pay close attention to some natural thing. (I did this yesterday, and I chose a bright tiger swallowtail farming a lilac blossom. I felt lucky to see something I had names for—more than butterfly or flower.) Today, watch some natural thing—even the rain or snow through your window—and breathe into it. Really observe it. Then grab a pen and see what words suggest themselves. You don’t have to do anything with them; you’re merely the transcriptionist, and your job is to get them down. Maybe later you can make a poem—or not. The point is the watching, not producing.
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