I Want To Believe I Am Looking

Writing A Poem ... Is A Kind Of Possible Love Affair Between Something Like The Heart (that Courageous But Also Shy Factory Of Emotion) And The Learned Skills Of The Conscious Mind.

At Blackwater Pond The Tossed Waters Have Settled After A Night Of Rain. I Dip My Cupped Hands. I Drink A Long Time. It Tastes Like Stone, Leaves, Fire. It Falls Cold Into My Body, Waking The Bones. I Hear Them Deep Inside Me, Whispering Oh What Is That Beautiful Thing That Just Happened?

We Do Not Love Anything More Deeply Than We Love A Story.

Every Day I Walk Out Into The World / To Be Dazzled, Then To Be Reflective.

I Climb, I Backtrack. I Float. I Ramble My Way Home.