Another Poem

I write another poem for to reassure someone (Me?) that nothing will hinder.

Perhaps

Ends; begins. Writ; collected.

I see that neither muse nor pen is spent.

“More to see! The child who eats the twisting treat; the gull who rides the unseen surf.”

Paddling swan in feathers.

Day-drinker ponders; rises; leaves the poem.

Two tidal swells of light ‘n sound awash e’er o’er my senses…

The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.

Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?