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"The mind is its own place" John Milton, Paradise Lost
Best told in person
if there was one
the sun has gone
into a bed
of gray
the shadow's song
in any way
not loud
has lost its hue
and stops
soft I thought the cloud
now feel it wet
And yet
I feel in drops
the essence
of a distant dance
and can connect
yet not collect
as can the shore the drops of time
no hand to hand the cup
I am sitting on a rock
sitting pretty pretty hard
wild at art
not mad at blue
In person told
and not outside
this poem kept my person wide
yin-yang and bold
till you arrive
I will have named each pebble mine