An ode to February 💙

“The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.” — Anaïs Nin

Dearest reader,

Writing this on the last day of February, I find myself looking back at how the month has unfolded: the days stretching a little longer, the golden hour light dancing on the walls, the green-again trees whispering of incoming change.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about surrender—not in the way of giving up, but of letting go. Letting poetry move through me like a tide, trusting in myself a little more, starting again. This morning, I spent time flipping through my art book collection with a group of art school students, sharing my haphazard creative process with a sense of pride. Mornings like these remind me how grateful I am for this community, for the doors it has opened, and the ways in which this newsletter has become a map for navigating life’s ups and downs.

Thank you, as always, for reading, for pausing, for carrying these words into your own days.

---

Poetry Corner

Painted by Federico Zandomeneghi

1. An Old Story by Mary Oliver
   Sleep comes its little while. Then I wake
   in the valley of midnight or three a.m.
   to the first fragrances of spring
   
   which is coming, all by itself, no matter what.
   My heart says, what you thought you have you do not have.
   My body says, will this pounding ever stop?
   
   My heart says: there, there, be a good student.
   My body says: let me up and out, I want to fondle
   those soft white flowers, open in the night.
   

2. A Path in the Woods​ by Anna Kamieńska

   I don’t trust the truth of memories
   because what leaves us
   departs forever
   There’s only one current of this sacred river
   but I still want to remain faithful
   to my first astonishments
   to recognize as wisdom the child’s wonder
   and to carry in myself until the end a path
   in the woods of my childhood
   dappled with patches of sunlight
   

3. Waiting For Waffles by Pam Lewis
   Eons pass
   as steam swirls from the waffle iron.
   
   Inside lies the pale magma
   of an unformed planet
   
   the Precambrian
   in the geology of breakfast
   
   terrain untouched by syrup rivers,
   innocent of cinnamon showers
   
   its pocked topography slowly
   browning, its ridges crusting
   
   as epochs roll on in miniature
   beneath a jagged steel sky.
   

4. Peckin by Shel Silverstein
   The saddest thing I ever did see
   Was a woodpecker peckin’ at a plastic tree.
   He looks at me, and “Friend,” says he,
   “Things ain’t as sweet as they used to be.”

---

Links of the Week

• Jean Cocteau at home reading, 1960 ^

• Learning: What makes a good pitch? (via Broccoli Mag’s newsletter, Publishing Dreams)

• In awe: Polish artist NeSpoon’s Lace Murals

• David Attenborough Befriends a Dinosaur ^

• Austin Kleon’s Typewriter interview with Ross Gay

• Also: Beauty Notes – Typewriters and Pianos

  inkydogstudio

  

  A post shared by @inkydogstudio

• LOVE: Cyanotype pigeons! ^

• (mac)OStalgia

---

“Because in February the days were really getting longer and you could see it, if you really looked. You could see how at the end of each day the world seemed cracked open and the extra light made its way across the stark trees, and promised. It promised, that light, and what a thing that was.”
— Elizabeth Strout, Olive, Again

---

Here’s hoping woodpeckers peck only at real trees…And wishing you a lovely March, full of sunshine and manifestations! 🌿✨

Love,
Rohini