Bio: Drew Myron

BIO | poem

West of Wasco

1.

So much of my writing life is the drive to the story not yet told. 

Backroads and hillsides, wide sky and shifting light. Across highway and gravel, 

through fields and farms, bends and turns, my mind winding with anticipation. 

2.

I arrive and smile. 

Tell me your story, I say without saying. I listen and nod, take too many notes. 

I will tuck your words in my ribs, a small cage of secrets, fears, and sometimes tears. 

I see you, I say without saying. 

3.

On the drive home, I’ll carry a weight. 

The landscape is immense and in this largeness I am suddenly small. 

How to contain this beauty and truth?

I will snap photo after photo. But cannot capture the quiet, 

the wind through fields, the fresh crop, the collective sigh. 

4.

The road is long and the mind races, spools, finally slows. 

Everything is brightness and beauty. In the green field beneath 

the blue sky, I both live in, and stand outside, the moment. 

I was always writing. 

In the craving for quiet, I move to the edges. Raised in Denver, Colorado, I escaped the frenzy for the driving winds and wide sky of Wyoming. For a dozen years I lived on the rocky, remote Oregon Coast, and now live on the dry side of Oregon between big river and dormant volcano. It's quietitude that pulls me across the map, in search of spaces where the absence is full.