I live and write on a barrier island off the Jersey coast where the wind and the waves fight for my attention. I write poetry in the same way a rosebush produces roses. I have no choice. Like breathing, it seems natural and essential. An idea germinates inside my head and lies down on the page of my notebook. My work writing poetry begins when I ask which words stay and which must go. The poem that grows from this must look as though no other choices could have been made. My sweat is my secret.