I’m only offering up one poem today. This is one of several over time that she talks about her own writing. I’d say this is one of my favorites.
Did You Ever Die of an Itch? (#30)
If I go roaming through the woods
Under a wonderful sun warm sky
My soul sings out for the glory of it
And my fingers begin to twitch.
I need some paper and several pens
To lie in the grass on my back
To smell the flowers, feel the earth
And proceed on paper to scratch.
Water will not serve to quench
This wild burning in my fingertips
No matter how utterly lovely the day
This itch to write is giving me fits.
October 13, 1971