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

the giving
littleloungers

Ruth Stone said something to the effect that finding the poem is sometimes catching it by the tail as it passes by. (Elisabeth Gilbert, TEDtalk)

Before it moves on, through the landscape.

DSC_0065And this is familiar to me.
I recognise the existence of these creatures. I’ve heard them. Felt them brush against me. I’ve sensed them, teasing and wanting to be caught.

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.