Things That Run Around and Bloom
The author refers to this particular book of poetry as writing from, "the other side" of her, "pen". She thinks of this collection as something similar to an unruly laiason, and while she considers her other works of poetry to be her "Mozarts", she sees this one as her "Beethoven".
Normally, things that run around don't "bloom" and things that "bloom" can't run around. But aren't we all like this, at the end of the day? We all run around in this world, while we bloom at the same time (or at least we try to).
Expect a departure from the sculpture-like poetry that the author is already known for and be prepared to read what sounds like pages torn out of a weathered and worn diary of a woman who runs around in this world, and blooms wherever and whenever she can.
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