I wander  trails made by person or deer in the same way that I sit in front of a blank page. No destination or agenda in hand. I wait and walk until nudged to stop. I may have heard a word or line for my red notebook and may plop where I am and write for a long time. I follow words like I follow trails, letting metaphor, memory, sensation and image guide where the poem might want to go. Sometimes I just write that heard word, sitting with it until the birds who vanished with alarmed call at my sight return to song. Other times my invitation to stop is a call from stone, sticks, flower or leaf. I gather theses living ones, like I gather metaphor or image, carrying them with me until a page of earth reveals itself as the place to follow the pattern into form.  

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