The Talkin' Non-Poetry-Writing Walking Month

So I’ve decided, for National Poetry Month, I’m not going to write a poem all month long. That can be considered either my protest of such a government-inspired travesty or a gift of mine to the same.

Instead, I’m walking. No, not from the blog, but outside. Spring has finally come, and I’d like to dedicate myself to walking at least a little each day. And with a companion such as Thoreau the past 9 months (for those few who may not know, I’ve been blogging Thoreau’s Journals) I’d like to see what, if anything, I’ve learned.

To this effect I took a little walk by the Newburyport waterfront this morning. Besides the sun shining brightly and a stiff wind from the west, though, I found no flashes of inspiration. I was alone, all but for a man taking a smoke break by the river. Same as me, I guessed. I’m talking a horizon break, sucking in the endless Atlantic through the mouth of the Merrimack and exhaling Powow Hill, upriver, in the west. But then too soon, we both must return to our workaday worlds.

But tonight, after work and dinner, I walked along the road besides the Merrimack. The red-wings brought the river marsh alive, although I couldn’t see them at all. Down by the river I cramped my brain trying to think great thoughts. But I only felt like a boy in front of his great grandfather, and wondered, like that boy would, how old is this river anyways. Back home, I heard the peepers in the wetlands. From a solitary peeper on Thursday, they’ve become a symphony orchestra. (Or as Van Morrison sang, from a whisper to a scream.) And they haven’t hit their crescendo yet.

And I certainly hope I’ve only just begun too.