In Northern California we have funny pseudo-seasons. Warm and bright November days that fool you into summer feelings, roses that act as if they’re going to make bouquets more, and this year winter will take a vacation. And then at nightfall, the temp falls, and suddenly you’re in wool and looking at stars like icicles and wondering whether you should just stay home until February.
I find myself writing less and less as the season and earth contracts
during fall and winter. The shorter days, the angle of light, the
chill, are not my sources of inspiration. I’m an expansionist, if I feel
the sun’s touch on my shoulder, I go where it wants to lead me. Mine
are mostly spring and summer poems, I find. My inspiration leads me to
want to expand my being to include the world in fresh new ways, to
incorporate it into myself imaginatively and explore it from within. I
think as a writer I have a season of dormancy. Maybe a good time to tell
tales, write prose, but poetry for me waits for the new buds.
Anticipating their pop and fragrance.
How about you — are you a seasonal poet or writer? Curious.