I write the way I make art: slowly, sensorially, following a feeling until it finds its shape.
My poetry tends to live in the same territory as my gatherings — nature as teacher, the body as a site of memory, the ordinary moment cracked open into reverence.
I'm drawn to long, unhurried sentences that mirror the pace of actually noticing something: a twilight sky coming alive, honeysuckle steeped into cold water, the synchronicity of a tarot card pulled in the moment, the particular ache of arriving somewhere alone.
I write toward the threshold moments, the ones that ask for sincere presence.
