POET + COMMUNITY ARTIST
creator | facilitator | soul friend
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 ripple of who is gone now,
and who is left behind.
We must each write our own story.
We must each find our way. It is all meaningless
unless we believe something.