March is coming to a close. Today a thousand small birds rioted around the house, swirls of birds, cyclones of birds, bird torrents, trees brimming with tiny voices, the flicks of wings, full immersion bird song.
The days have grown longer. Snow slumps and sneaks away. And the uprush of life pushes through everything, including writers. February and early March can sometimes smother. The winter has dragged on too long. The air in the house feels bereft of oxygen, passed through our lungs too many times.
And now, the scent of soil. No green yet here in the North world, but the hope of green. Green’s password from the throats of small birds. “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age…”
And so we create because that is what we are called to do.
Throughout April, please join me for a poetry prompt each day. A chance to share first lines of poems. An invitation to open yourself up to the creative force of spring.
The interspersed images in this post are from Shared Worlds… advice from speculative fiction authors. And if I were in high school again, a program that I would have begged to be part of. Check it out here.