(photo stolen from Tamara Bryan)
In this place of natural beauty I think I could stay, and have so much fodder for poems.
- rain clouds rising from steep hills -
- spume spraying iron colored sand -
My voice could speak for all the world. But quickly after nailing a few apt descriptors
- looming, profligate and rich -
- ever-changing, fitful and fleeting -
I descend into simply listing all the elements overwhelming me and pushing me out
- wren, goose, otter, moss, mist -
- ocean, ocean, ocean, sky, sky -
I realize that none of it needs me to describe it or name it. Every last bit speaks for itself.
- you know such places -
- you'll fall silent, for no poem can represent -
It is all I can do here to listen and wonder and become something else. Any poem is only my voice
- creating my self in this crowded place -
- At a loss but for my own words -
