Thursday, November 6, 2014

writing raw

this poem slipped out
in between the gentle wind
and the moon light.

writing raw
is like a plumb line
a fishing line
down into my pool
not seeking but being
the open hand receives
the golden ball.

breaking the surface
the words,
carrying their images
from the rich silt of the deep bottom,
rise for air
for voice
for breath
to be heard.

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