How Barbara Kingsolver reignited her love affair with words - The Washington Post

I'm writing poetry. I hadn't realized how badly I've missed language, the weight of words, their rhythms and tastes on the tongue. Oh, I love telling a story: beginning, middle, end. But there's delight in telling a moment: the world turned over by a sudden encounter of unacquainted thoughts. When a poet tells me that hope has feathers, or that life is a loaded gun propped in the corner, or that time holds me green and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea, my pulse races. Get me up there on that tightrope where I can write my own sun barefooting cartwheels over the grass. Words are heady beings when they dance.