My notebook fills in winter fast.
The pages seem to take ink better
when trees are bare
and fields look blunt
and every road is bordered up
by dead grass, ditchwater, fence, and weather.
In summer I go out more.
In winter I stay in
and words begin to act important.
Some are good words.
Some are only words pretending.
I cannot always tell.
I write down things I mean that night
and read them back next morning
as if some moody stranger
borrowed my hand.
That bothers me.
It pleases me too.