I think of you as a bird, forever flying into the same pane of glass, in a lighthouse perhaps,
so that there was no respite from the constant flinging. And what a fright it must have been
to see yourself, reflected, bloodier and bloodier as you waxed and waned in your attacks.
I read your poem today, “Black Tree in an Orange Light.” Your first verse said,
“Tell me what you see in it
the pine tree like a Rorschach-blot
black against the orange light”
and I saw a brain, fired up by a lightning bolt.
David Smedley spends his free time writing poetry, free climbing, and hiking.