Thursday, May 18, 2017

Trees before forest


Long ago,
I relished, savoring that golden hour
In which people so often flock to the sea
Eyes set on the dipping radiant sun
And me now
Caught completely off-guard, unarmed,
By the bright gold glint reflecting upon
The beige page I cradle,
This glare that makes me lose
Place, interest, grip
in, on, or about anything
but this propositioning, this pen
and a poem
waiting for me
to see it there.


Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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