"You haven't been writing much," he told me on the phone tonight.
On my blog, he means.

True.
The pages in my notebook are information, processing, dissecting.
And who wants to read (or share) that?

At the meadows yesterday, I looked at the golden clouds in the west,
then the pink-lit tree tops of Dominion Mountain
and almost felt crushed by the beauty.
Tonight, also, Paradis Peak grew violet as the sun went down,
and I was paralyzed.

Now the sweat glitters on my palms,
invisible but for the light
And who, I wonder, will milk these sentences out of me,
will coax them from my breasts?

Words are wrought like iron,
must be mined as salt.
And sometimes I feel so empty-handed,
so naked and ill-prepared for this work.

The tossing of our sleep is in itself a language.