This is my advice: slice the morning. Make wedges out of hours, minutes where you could be writing poetry. Carve the fleshy part of day, the time when words mean exactly what you think, exactly what you want, exact like a sharp, expensive tool you bring out for the big jobs. Poetry was made for mornings, open eyes and half remembered dreams. And you. You are a poet. Pour a glass of freshly squeezed words. Raise it to your lips. Feel the foam of everything sweet you want to say, everything tart or bitter. Drink deeply. Tell us what you know now. -Katherine Gotthardt
