Thank you, Syl Jones, for sharing the poem you wrote about attending the September 2014 workshop.

Sometimes
nothing rushes over me
like a torrent of space —
Time to get on with the doing,
rapt as it were in thin air.
I could stew for hours
in someone else’s penumbra
but where is my own?
Where is that seminal thing, that fluid
that binds me as it unwinds me
and I stumble over one beautiful
idea after another that has my face
on it? I don’t know what this means
but I pretend, “Yes, Yes”
and nod as someone speaks
from the back of her head,
the front of his teeth.
When will I learn to hold
on to nothing as meaning,
whatever that is,
slips quietly away?
Perhaps…
Today

–Syl Jones