It is not possible for me to separate my writing life from my personal - one informs the other. And there is no ambiguity in where I stand. You only need to read any of my novels, short stories, or poems to know that I believe in the power of community, cooperation, mutual support, and love.
Long before I wrote my first story, poetry was my writing passion. It's the form I return to when I need to understand my emotions and its the filter I use to see the world. This is what I wrote the other day, as I grappled (and continue to grapple) with the cruelty that threatens all of us.
While it can be tough to find the mental space and peace to write, I am continuing to make slow and steady progress on LITANY's sequel. I hope you are finding a way to keep creativity and hope in your life, even in difficult times.
Filling the Feeders Before the Storm
The first shift at the feeders are dark-eyed juncos.
White bellied fat birds who stare at me, their heads
cocked in full golden retriever tilt mode, side-eye
game on point. Then the tufted tit mice invade
wearing their self-important crowns. Hanging
back, swaying on a sagging patio light string,
a pair of gold finches, sun starved still barely
pale yellow. Soon the speckled woodpeckers
will swoop in and all the smaller birds will scatter
back to the safety of pine boughs and fence posts.
The storm has not gotten here. Meteorologists
can only puff their cheeks and study the landscape
like hungry squirrels praying for a mast year. School
children have been disappointed before. I would be
skeptical too, but the birds give a different warning.
Before the clouds form, before the first flakes fly,
they have emptied five full feeders in a day.
I squint out the window, imagine the dead grass
and bare trees under more than a foot. It could
happen. The news interrupts weather updates
with tragedy. Dangerous wind chills. Death
on city streets. School closures. Disappearances.
Parking bans – you will be towed! Deportations.
All the while, the birds feast, unaware of who
provides this bounty of suet and seed. When
the snow stops. When the plows scour the roads.
When the weather report is the smallest interlude
among atrocities once more, I will think about
all the hungry birds; hope some kind soul remembers
to fill the feeders when I am no longer safe here.
Lisa Janice (LJ) Cohen
January 27, 2026
