About the Title

The title of this blog comes from a line in a poem by Bryn Phinney. When she first read it to me, I begged her to let me use a fragment of a line for the blog, and she graciously acquiesced.

The Edge of Morning or Wilds of Wonder

There is something in a span of Alpine nothing
That stirs the rafters of my chest
And tumbles its steel poles into new
Magnetic alignment with the North,
Something in frost-blocked horizon that
Rains a crystalline drift of thought
Over this stretched tenting of skin
Till it’s goosebumped with frosty
Geometric chaos.

I cannot say how it’s happened,
But I’ve bivouacked in the wilds of wonder
And found be-
There is no cure for this nomadic madness
When the soul is lightning-struck.
Only roaming feet and open eyes for
That flower-broken, cloud-awoken
Between the grass and sky.
Aways making,
Always breaking camp on the endless edge
Of morning.

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