In a clearing formed
by dozens of converged
trails, a tent stands open.
I've come here by one
trail or another, dropped
my bag, crawled in, and slept.
By morning, the tent
is gone and I'm sitting up
at the head of countless trails.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Blog Archive
-
▼
2005
(72)
-
▼
October
(17)
- Three Haiku
- Halloween Gourd
- Seeking God
- Food and the Hands
- Not Listening
- Good Use
- Small Pile of Pebbles
- On Trying to Implement Taoism in Your Life
- Four Identical Stanzas
- Guilt
- At The Pied Cow in Portland
- A Broken Man Finds Respite
- Eclipse
- Watercolors
- You and Solomon
- Wreck Anniversary
- Ted Kooser Eating Cake
-
▼
October
(17)
No comments:
Post a Comment