As I’ve written before, in “What Sets a Poem in Motion,” poetry often starts flowing in my mind when I’m present and open to it. It doesn’t take much to set it off. 

On hikes, in the shower, meditating. Anywhere, anytime. As long as I’m not brain-deep into spinning on life’s worries or other consuming vibes.

Here’s a poem of mine, which I recently ran across from a 2018 hike in Red Rock Canyon Open Space in Colorado Springs:


Husks of life small and quiet offer whispers of what they once held when they alighted on grainy walls of rock red, buried in millennia of revolutions

Translucent left-behinds collected in my hands and cupped cautiously against the breezes, protected like a summer dream of a boy turned out into the wild

In the delicate shells are the threshold of life death and new, captured for examination by curiosities of whys and hows that hint at stories obvious if unclear

They are there, those stories, those transitions, held in the fibers waiting for me to find and plug into them in the uncut silence

This photograph is one of the lifeless insect husks referred to in this poem:

Photograph by Adam Williams