Something Silver – a typewriter poem

You sit down at the typewriter in the pale light, the candles glittering and begin to type. The view, the weather, the dream, the first thoughts, the whispers of insistent ponderings. The larger questions always seem to be about the sky or the visiting birds or how very quiet the trees can be on a frigid morning etched, as they say, in their dark winter architecture against the open acres of sky. The open acres of sky visible now behind the pencil sketch of trees.

Something silver


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in Poetry, sky, typewriter poems, winter and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Something Silver – a typewriter poem

  1. I’m loving these typewriter poems!

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