Reacting, reflecting on the world around me is part of the poetic urge. If I look at the hillside, burning with autumn hues, words form in my mind, then take shape on paper (or more likely, the screen). Seeing a full moon, anticipating an eclipse shrouded by rain clouds on an October night––what comes to mind? Perhaps hobgoblins, perhaps black cats, (who knows?) for a poem often shapes itself independent of the initial thought.

The crisp air of autumn,…..

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