July 2016
While my three children were young, I wrote just enough poetry to give me an inkling that I might have an aptitude for it, but I wasn’t brave enough to throw my earning potential aside until my family was grown and I’d worked for a number of years. As time went on, I came to regret not having devoted myself to writing much earlier in life. The “now or never” decision came about 20 years ago—my late-in-life career—and the process of creating a poem still gives me enormous satisfaction. I’m gratified that my poetry is widely published in the small press and equally gratified by becoming part of a larger community of writers. For my publishing credits:
lindamfischer.com
lindamfischer.com
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Daphne I move through a season of rain— the days merge like streams. My nights are veiled in gauzy myths, unhousing the serpent’s tooth. How does one make heroes of men? I check the underbrush, looking for signs— my face always betrays me. Once I could stride through thickets unafraid— my hands unhinge branches, dead canes, a frieze of vines. Now I hear the echo of a heart beating and the rush of birds taking wing—and I, rooted here, unyielding, cling to earth as does an oak: my breasts to bark, arms to limbs, my head to crown turn. |
©2016 Linda M. Fischer