I suppose this one has some form of relation to the poetry from most recent days, but I do not consider it to be as connected as the other ones.
Another mental health piece if you will. Or…just a thing about the joy to be found in not doing anything.
I have them, I suffer from them, I try to cope. Because I do love to travel.
Something slightly personal, though when is poetry not personal in some way, shape or form?
Kicking off October with a short story about family, love and how a common passion can bind you together, even in difficult times.