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.