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-

Longing.

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

Empty

Between the grass and sky.

Aways making,

Always breaking camp on the endless edge

Of morning.