Best beloveds, thank you for reading my word conjurings this month. It’s been delicious for me. I have loved the moment of pulling the prompt, looking at the words, feeling a twinge of fear (Can I do it? What if I can’t?) and then settling down to let my mind and my heart go about their business. I have had to banish the worry–Will it be any good?–every day. It’s so obnoxious, that thought. It’s so paralyzing. And yet it’s always there, lurking. Grr…I share that information in case you wrestle with that lurking thought. Anyone who creates feels it. Don’t let it win. The poet Seamus Heaney said something like writing poetry is like dropping the bucket into the well every day. Some days you will pull up sludge and rocks. Somedays it’s crystal clear. The point is you have to drop the bucket. Every day. Today’s bucket dropping was prompted by my Irish pal Dennis Fagan. He didn’t know I’d been cavorting over here in poetry month. So he gave me this prompt:

BUTTERSCOTCH ON A WINTER’S NIGHT

Like butterscotch on a winter’s night?
He wondered.
Yes. Like that.
How about doing that one?
He said.
So I stare into a fire
a gold yellow butter fire that hopscotches
in and out of the blue, red, orange flame parts.
Only what’s really going on is spring
Full on spring with a brilliant sun that winks
in and out of deep green shadows
It hard to conjure cold nights and sweet sticky candy
On a day like today.
Or is it?
I wonder about this marvel of memory
A cache full of satellitic moments
And me a breathing transponder,
A walkie talkie relay system.
Of winter delights on a bright spring day.