The rye diary: Day two and still waiting

Yes, a rye diary is not a daily effort at this point, as the winter rye is taking its time. I was hoping to show you a picture of new sprouts. Every time I walked past the patch, I’d bend close and examine the seeds left on the surface for signs of change. Saturday, after some rain, I thought I saw progress—miniscule roots venturing out. Maybe by the next day?

The next day brought snow—at first, just a scattering.

snow scattered on the ground

In the night, a blanket. Two days later, the rye patch is still covered, and the temperature huddles in the high 20s.

snow covering the garden

Not ideal for germination.

I love the snow anyway, and I started to think about it in terms of writing.

Snow obscures. I am all for the lyric, the figurative, but I have at times hidden what I’m saying under images or, more often, beguiling sounds. While I’m trying to make something beautiful, I might be freezing out the reader, and myself.

Snow transforms. Now we’re getting somewhere. As snow changes the familiar landscape, it invites me to see those trees, rooftops, and garbage cans differently. A poem can similarly transform my understanding, give me that same “Ah!” feeling of waking up to a world snow-rendered.

Snow disrupts. I have to change my routine, find my heavy boots. Disruption in a poem catches my attention.

Snow on my rye patch makes me wonder what’s going on below the surface. It also makes me wait, which gets me thinking about the advice to put a poem in a drawer for X amount of time. I do not usually do that (what? patience?). During my thesis work this year, I focus on a few poems at a time, while the rest are in a virtual drawer—or under snow. This gives me some distance from them.

When I come back to that temporarily neglected work, I see new gaps, new flaws, new stones to turn over or toss aside. Even my poem that has rye in it, and which I thought was the best poem I have written yet, and which has been rejected multiple times–this morning I found some tricky places where I might not want to be tricky.

How do you get distance from your work? (And if you set poems aside, what’s your magic waiting time?) What are your snowy writing connections?