creator | facilitator | mentor
Meaning is not my creation.
This poem is yours now, read into it
what you wish, what you hear
of echoes. The colour of the sky
may predict the future;
clouds may have illuminated thoughts.
I write only what I see, what I cannot say
as well as I wish to. Like an oriole’s high notes
falling from the oak tree this morning,
or the pebble of your voice dropping through the phone
at 4:27 pm; the ripples of who is gone,
and who is left behind.
We each write our own story.
We must each find our way. It is all meaningless,
unless we believe something.