Soon, it will be Winter Solstice. That time to make time to center inward. Then, time to move outward. Much like a spoon does for soup. A pen to poem. Nothing happens before a still moment. Perhaps, beauty. Perhaps, grace. Yes, to both.
I could sit before it sails and on the ocean mooring count the boats moving through the depths, and soaring in my silly heart, a feeling I should be going--who wanders on the horizon anymore, anyway?
I could sit before it sails and on the ocean mooring count the boats moving through the depths, and soaring in my silly heart, a feeling I should be going--who wanders on the horizon anymore, anyway?
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