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