This Is Where You’ll Find Me

A shoreless island, leaves rustled
by moonlight. A quilted table set, 
perhaps, for two. Tempered words 
where my bones are not invisible—
this is where I am.
A loose-leaf manuscript; a flush 
drawer, no handle. A jagged thought
discovered, then recovered. Truer notes
played from my rooted, airy reeds—
this is where I wait.
Where the pebble echoes the mountain,
where hunger is scribbled in eddies,
where my days pass at the speed of time
—this is where you’ll find me;
this is what is there.

• • •

Image credit: Pixabay (source)

Father, son, husband, friend and writer by day; asleep by night. Happily pondering the immortality of the crab wherever words are shared.

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