Last night I wrote the skunk cabbage will be late this year. And, this morning, in the icy brook, I see it is, in fact, here. What Craig Holdredge, the naturalist calls "the tip of the spear," is shooting up through the icy brook where it grows. I am in my hiking boots today, no skis, no snow shoes, but I'm using my ski poles to give me more heft and tread as I crunch and slip through the old snow on the trails. 

After walking, I write, but not what I planned. I work on a prose poem of sorts that I thought I had finished. Last night I shared it for critique with some poetry friends and discovered possibilities for a few small changes. Well, as I worked, they were, perhaps, more significant than that. But I chipped away at it, fine tuning all day, this piece about walking in February woods that becomes a piece about going to therapy and facing the fear of abandonment that surfaces in any deep and trusting relationship. To admit to a need for a safe listener at an acutely emotional time is always a risk.It's a poem in prose about regression, feeling abandonment, and finding a way to not abandon oneself.

Skunk cabbage. Hello. I'm happy you're here.

All photos and text ©Kelly DuMa 2108