In 1999, I started writing a book of poetry to mark transitions on and off the page. The Dry Season. Much of it remained untouched and unpublished. To my partial shame, I stopped working on it to attend school after a few years out doing other things. Ended up writing another book, but this has always been close to my surface, probably because I never really did anything with it and let it linger, instead, like another thing I had started and not finished. And because of what it means to convey.
And because I loved it so.
They’re not all good. I can accept that. They are what they are, a chronicle of things remembered and feared, of beauty I could only give inadequate care. It is, as they say, what it is.
The Dry Season
Besson Street, 1941
The Seabird Hymn
Here’s a storify link from the tweets I posted earlier.