e’en now
I remember
a sliver of moon
tiny white shells
on the ground
poems were written
each night
as I lay
neath a cradle of stars
– a heart without sound

committing to memory
every fissure of light
as wings gave name to the wind
I began to tell stories
of how it might be
– the grief of a sailor
returned by the sea

in search
of the lost
some answer to find
tho weaved to a locket
his share
were happiness more
than a place
on the map
a long ago something
no one compares

how the pines
loved the river
for reasons unknown
boats rushed the current
to home

birthed into fortune
restless to wake
dreaming the color
of oceans unseen
quiet keeps silent
the pulling apart –
as shores shy away
from the green

. . .

Author’s Note: A little history. I awake more
than most in the midst of the night – holding to
words I can’t say. Launched from the bed
by the promise of page – I sit in the still –
telling stories by dark. Some call them rambling;
others, meant to be.

. . .