Hello, I'm Jeremy Beaudry. Welcome to my place. Words, photos, drawings et cetera.*

I do not know them. But my hand and my pen do.

Again
adrift this crisp
oak leaf

Tawny and glossed
down on the cold
wind

Under duress of
bitter directionlessness
rise and

Fall of no current
than can be called
to account

I aim for the warming rock

Landmark
in the meadow hope
for solar gain

Finger bowls of
rainwater and pine
tannin reserves

I twirl the leaf between
index and
thumb and

Spinning, spinning
lay down
on the rock

Still
in the winter sun
to wait for

What I did was: collage together a few drawings from the past months and a recent poem into a micro-zine. Sketchbook, scanner, laptop, printer, scissors, paper, glue stick, typewriter. Analog to digital and back. Fold paper, drag a fingernail across the crease to sharpen the edge.

What I did was: distractedly flip through pages of my sketchbook — a memory palace (farmhouse?) — remember the days and the circumstances, the people and events, the entanglements, the relationships. Here, an image that showed me something unseen; and there, words that said more than I intended.

Dear Friends, I hope you are well. I hope you have some thing, some body to hold onto. Hold tight, but not so tight that you miss the serendipity of unexpected adventures and connections! Remember: THE WORLD IS BOUND WITH SECRET KNOTS.

O separation
through trees
of cracked season

You mysterious FORTRESS

Sit still in the balcony. Sound is the scratch of graphite, scuffle of black boots. A deep sigh. A squint into the light, to focus the distance into the Bierstadt, into the Domes of Yellowstone. From St. Johnsbury, Vermont, now, to the West, then, 1867. Smell is burnt dust, furniture polish, oil varnish. Climb down the wrought iron spiral. Feeling is hand-worn oak, hardwood floor settling to steps. Light headed and under stated at the Athaneum.

She is knitting at night. Her back is turned to me because she is keeping the cat company, who is dozing on the sofa. Her companion. Her audience. The click of the needles keeps time. My pencil slides over the tooth of the paper, searching for contours and volumes. The two of us keep focus. She, on yarn and pattern and movement. Me, on strands of wheat silk, draped cloth, and folds.