Autumn bleeds into Solstice the way poetry soaks before the ripple but comes to me as wordless breath that vanishes on composing.
Morning swamp-to saunter taking pause on recumbent ash soft awash in pondish laughter bull-rushes murmur rose hips so tangy to the tongue of winter, the first word.
-Jack Phillips
Jack Phillips is a poet and naturalist and founder of The Naturalist School, devoted to wild creativity and poetics of place. He has published some poems and teaches ecopsychology to medical students, but mostly he wanders the woods of the Missouri River watershed on foot or in a canoe.
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