Drinking from dry wells is a waste of time and energy. Poetic interpretation is as much about the state of mind of the reader as it is the writer. Huge shakers full of salt grains really do come in handy when laying your heart on the line. I remember sitting in the school library on October 27, 1982 writing the following poem. Moved by the beauty of the frost outside the window as well as the reality that my old life, high school, was ending and having spent the previous year in Sweden I was more than ready to get on with living. My heart and my mind traveled ahead while my body endured one last winter. — contrary to my mother’s belief that this was a poem about suicide (she almost put me in therapy), it is really about coming of age and the importance of waiting.

And I Wait for Spring

Morning frost covers the ground,

remnants of the night’s cold.

The crimson sun shines brightly, illuminating the morning.

Leaves shed their disguise of green and take on colors

which are better seen silhouetted again the pale blue sky of day.

The sun shines on the parade of wonderous colors

preparing for time of painted sleep.

The bubbling brook once fast and full of life

slows its course to better carry

winters burden.

A joining of life and placid rest

A time of time of celebration and endings

waiting for a new beginning.