This Weeks Readings Relate To Among Many Things The Seasons Changi This week's readings relate to, among many things, the seasons' changing, as well as one's sense of emotional and interior seasons. Choose one reading from this week, and write an imitation. You might write your own version of the poem "Some Feel Rain," or perhaps you write prose that engages with Thoreau's "Walking" or Dillard's "The Chase." Whichever selection you choose, incorporate your own specific, concrete details, and personal emotions.
Paper For Above instruction In contemplating the cyclical nature of both seasons and emotional states, I find myself drawn to Joanna Klink’s evocative poem "Some Feel Rain," which intricately weaves natural imagery with the subtle nuances of feeling. Inspired by her delicate depiction of sensory perception and inner experience, I will craft an original meditation that explores the intersections of external change and internal shifts, embedding concrete details and personal reflection to mirror her poetic sensitivity. As I sit on the porch during the early days of spring, I notice how the air feels thick with moisture, a subtle anticipation that hints at coming growth. I observe the way the moss on the shaded fence glistens with dew, each tiny droplet catching the first blush of dawn—a shimmer that seems almost alive. Just as Klink describes "some feel musk" against each other in darkness, I recall moments when, in quiet solitude, I would sense the faint scent of rain-soaked earth lingering in my lungs, grounding me in the present yet stirring memories of past storms. In these moments, I am acutely aware of my interior seasons—the ebb and flow of hope and melancholy, warmth and chill, resilience and vulnerability. Like Klink’s depiction of "tiny blinkings of ice from the oak," I have seen my own emotions crystallize in moments of clarity—a sudden coldness when faced with loss, a flicker of light when hope flickers amid despair. The shifting weather becomes a mirror for my internal landscape: sometimes steady and predictable, other times unpredictable and shifting unpredictably—mirroring the internal storms that threaten to overwhelm or nourish. I recall a personal experience of confronting change—an unexpected move to a new city. The days before departure were tinged with anxiety, a heavy fog that dulled the colors of my surroundings and muffled my usual enthusiasm. Yet, as I acclimated, I began to notice small details—the way sunlight filtered through unfamiliar trees, casting long shadows on the pavement, or the scent of unfamiliar flowers blooming in unexpected corners. These specifics, small yet vivid, became markers of my evolving internal