In the new space, I’ve been writing.
There is no shore in Idaho
no finely misting rains falling on the wide white breath of the magnolias
(gulping and greedy with spiny tongues in the briny breeze)
no fisherman’s wives waiting for sunset and
bearded lovers in burly wool sweaters
(musky with sea spray and fish slime).
There are no holdfasts laying
bulbous
and rank with fleas
on pebbled beaches where the surf flings itself
on the backs of tanning selkies.
There is no high tide to pull the driftwood
smooth-blond and gnarled
from the raspy clutches of high ground.
There are none of these
and still
there seems to be an ocean
between us.
:::Post Scriptus:::
You never saw the second chamber pre-renovation
but my, it was dismal.
Didn’t RW make a lovely place of it?
More images to come!
:::Post Scriptus:::
You never saw the second chamber pre-renovation
but my, it was dismal.
Didn’t RW make a lovely place of it?
More images to come!
