to wander once again
to my beloved
Shangri-La
where memories
of a voyage are still sketched
within imaginary fields
of lavender orchids
notebook in hand
impatient this becoming –
to pinpoint sweet names on the map
places where I may calmly dream
of exile months
between poet and muse
places to wander desolate paths
to collect
all the beauty
that will heal my soul
of its earthly temptations
at last
showing my ghosts
that purple ink
on faded pastel paper
is my own power
tethered by eyes and ears
to a world –
far beyond the heavens
and the words

. . .