a morning sequence to find
the softness – the belly
of time passing moorish and rich
smelling of what we fear
the giving in, the giving over
Before it moves on, through the landscape.
But they can be intimidating. Like dragons.
Sometimes speaking languages I don’t know. Or
demanding specific words, like knives, that I’m afraid to touch.
And during those times when I am not writing – the weeks
or years – I watch their shimmering from a distance
with an increasing balm of solitude.
There is always the promise of
the winter shore, the tiny
individual bubbles rising from the sand as the tide pulls out
desperate and hopeful
elusive, while unquestionably present
in whispers, soft with sighs.