a flock of Juncos jump at
garden leavings, hardened seed pods
fall for the groundkeeper
of this unkempt garden
found for a new use.
I can still conjure the waves
rolling in like a heartbeat
at times lolling
other times wracking with endless repetition.
Nothing is all one or another
although the tourist trade
can be hard to live with
as a singular only.
There were hints of cold soon descending
the mists of rain gathered at midday
and happy to leave finally
this magical place where I won’t stay.
It occurred to me by the shore
that years ago it was here I learned
I was meant to write.
At first it wasn’t clear what
I started with short prose
dabbled in ideas of novels
finally it focussed on poetry
to convey my inner demons.
That gets old even for the writer
then a mentor showed me the way
to beauty and meaning–nothing confessional nothing just musical
I began to see the poet waiting
there at long last ready
suddenly pushing pen on paper
making a new magic happen finally.