Go for a walk.

I had reason to walk down First Street this evening. The sun was just below the trees, the air cool enough for my ubiquitous purple coat, and everything quiet enough for reflection. Walks are good for the soul, but I don't take them very often because I'm lazy or careless or both. I've written plenty of poems out of good walks ("Crossing Main Street" and "Let Me Be Like a Leaf" come to mind), most of which rank among my personal favorites.

I didn't write a poem this evening, but if I did, it would have something to do with the wilting camelias scattered in the driveway, or the lost four-square ball by the curb, or the burnt-out building abandoned these past four and a half years which someone has recently deigned to decorate with two potted plants. I'm not sure what the point of the poem would be, though if I'd let the walk be longer, or if I'd faithfully refused to pull out my phone during the last leg, I might have thought of something.

There are triggers for creativity, and there are triggers for the lack of it.   

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