We have snuck four (count them!) poems into our month of blog posts, in a nod to National Poetry Month (and also with a nod to our dear poet-in-residence Lois Thevarge, who is taking a pause in her creative output to tend to her health, and whose weekly posts I do miss. Good wishes to you, Lois Fay).

The month is coming to an end, and it is possible I will unsubscribe from the daily “poetry pause” that has been landing in my in box each day, because, said inbox is honestly out of control, and some days, I’d like to open it and discover it’s empty… (oh! what manner of existential crisis would that spin me into?! Careful what you wish for.)

And yet, this intervention was lovely the other morning… this phrase, that I am still muddling over, that “letting go is recycling your childhood.”

“Letting go is knowing you have rib bones the wind can whistle through.”

What does it even mean? I have no idea, honestly. But Martin Shaw, the wonderful storyteller, has said, about stories, not to listen in order to dissect and analyze, not to grasp for meaning, but just to see what image lands with you… what phrase or word is like a little burr that snags you…

The somersault of the calendar.

Indeed, here April winds down, tumble-turning towards the end of the mat, and out into May.