I have not written poems for a while (see below why). Then I started following an Australian poet, Darby Hudson, and a poem wrote itself. I guess I can call it Winter.

Vareniki is a Russian name of pierogi, potato dumplings, a staple in any post Soviet household.

When I was reading Rollo May’s The Courage to Create, I realised that I have not written poems for a while because:

Today I learned that I don’t write poems because I have a meditative practice. 
Turns out meditation kills creativity because peace replaces existential angst. 
To be a poet is to feel anxiety of nothingness. 
To dance at the edge of emptiness with no self. 
No, thanks? 
I’d rather choose peace and no poems, than poems and madness.