A Month of Paying Attention

Today feels like a quiet convergence.

It marks one year since I began writing on Substack—an unexpected home for reflections, stories, and questions that continue to shape how I see the world.

It also marks the twentieth anniversary of the Fib poem, the deceptively simple poetry form built on the Fibonacci sequence—one that reminds us how structure and creativity often grow from the same mathematical seed.

Note: Some of you shared your own Fib(s) to help commemorate the 20th anniversary of the Fib (primalbeet, Alegria de Rose, Joshua Robinson). You can find the offerings at Twenty Years of the Fib. And if you missed the original tribute to Greg Pincus and his formalization of the Fibonacci Poem, Fib, you can find it here: Fibonacci Poetry

And of course, today begins National Poetry Month.

Taken together, it feels less like coincidence and more like invitation.

Over the past year, I’ve found myself drawn less to declaring answers and more to the act of paying attention—to language, to silence, to the spaces between what we think and what we know.

Poetry lives there.

Not necessarily in mastery, but in noticing.

So for the next thirty days, I’m going to try something small.

Each day in April, I’ll write a single couplet—two lines only. Nothing elaborate. Just a brief moment of attention. Perhaps an image, perhaps a question, perhaps a shift in understanding.

No promises of brilliance. Only presence.

If you’d like to follow along, I’ll gather these small pieces here as the month unfolds.

Holding the Bloodstone

A National Poetry Month practice

I thought I needed more words—
until the silence began answering back.

This month I’m carrying a small polished bloodstone in my pocket.

Each day I’ll write a two-line poem—a couplet—about whatever the day offers while that stone travels with me.

Thirty days.
Two lines at a time.

Sometimes poetry begins not with speaking, but with listening.

And so the listening begins.

Day 1—Paying Attention

I turn the bloodstone once in my palm
as if beginning a conversation

One year ago, I pressed “publish” here for the first time.
Thank you for reading, thinking, and wandering with me.