I've been having the least-pleasant form of writerly hibernation: writer's block, where I'm not curled up cozily in my warm, snug den snoozing the winter away, but knotted up inside myself in frozen frustration wondering when I'll get a new idea again.
But here in rural Indiana, after weeks of gray skies and cold temperatures, the snow is melting under the irresponsible late February sun which is doing its best to tempt the crocuses to sprout too soon.
This put me in mind of a poem I wrote when I was in high school. It was the early 1970s, and I was definitely one of the first Earth Day tree huggers. Actually, I was a tree kisser, and much teased for it by classmates. I was also someone maligned for talking to flowers. So I wrote this:
They say she talks to daffodils
And through the school the story spread.
Oh, the tales that they would tell
If they knew what the flowers had said!
So I think, as I emerge from my hibernation of the writer's soul, it's time for me to stop worrying about the Next Big Idea and just talk to some daffodils and see what they say. Talk to some imaginary characters in my head and listen for their replies. I won't worry about what censorious classmates - or editors, or reviewers - might think.
My task right now is just to listen to the flowers.