I wonder if I could write less and say more, or say less because what I say holds more meaning.
Sometimes I just like to play with words, mold them and mix item all up like wet clay to see what kind of pottery it all has in it.
But this time of year I crave more silence. Not complete silence, obviously, but more than usual. I crave something more like a poem and less like an essay.
To see a plowed field,
Or the fruit tree by the gate:
One brown leaf, one pear.