In the morning early, quiet, dark
I watch dawn bloom in rose and yellow streaks
The day an open page

I let them go
these thoughts
wonders
to wander
like clouds, windswept
across the sky

arising as perhaps a castle
a tree, see there,
no a flower, surely
a face alight with laughter
or was it tight with pain
before I know them
they have passed on and by

so they go, forming phrases
sentences
chaining
twining
horizon to horizon

and all my hurried proofing marks
scurry after
trying to hold a place

In the evening
Quiet once more
I scan the sky to
read my scattered notes
hoping to divine a wider pattern
hoping for meaning to arise

but
the sun sets behind the mountains and the stars break through
and always the dawn comes, bearing a page fresh and new

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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