Whenever I hike through the 733 acres of our local cemetery, I have to stifle the compulsion to declaim poetry to an audience of tombstones, trees, and birds. Instead, I turn the words inward, or whisper them under my breath. The shadow-poets I prefer change with the seasons. If winter’s sharp, cold, stinging reach is perfect for Sylvia Plath, then the gloriously still warmth of spring is the natural home for the distilled, profound and subtle Emily Dickinson.
Two forlorn graves and clumps of wildflowers are the perfect audience for Emily’s poems.
*“Nature” is what we see” is the opening line from an Emily Dickinson poem.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 
Nature never forgets anyone or anything.
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So wise and so true.
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My stoic disposition evaporates when I walk in the wilderness, something innocent begins to surface.
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I am very much an urban being, but I feel incredibly serene when I am surrounded by nature. Especially glorious nature that is found in unexpected places.
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