Worlds, when not gathered in poems, are useless. It is not that I haven’t thought, shaped or draws words, but they haven’t gone from my senses to my heart, neither from my mind to my soul and then, were not worth sharing.
The time, I thought, was making a mockery of the spiritual, with abuse of use and manipulation. I put all my words away until they regenerate.
A year has passed, my new studio’s walls are dry. It is in the deepest of winter that I return, to plant the sprouts, to repot the projects that needed more space, to grow all that can be from cutting for discovering their surprises.
I extract myself from silence, looking for renaissance and continuity glimmers. Still numb, curious as I have been during this long renewal.
I wish you the recognition of your splits through which the light shows in shadows and Marvels.