Sunday, May 24, 2015

Echoes of Feeling Be-ing

I almost never look for
poems, they rather find me.
They nag me till I refine
their ordering to suit them.

Well, so it doth seem to me . . .
but by then I am nowhere 
to be found, leaving only 
echoes of feeling being.

Like early this morn when I
did awaken to the hoo-
h’Hoo-hoo-hoo of the Great
Horned Owl, making me weep for

joy here, in the deep south of
North America.  ’Twas much 
too early to jump for joy, 
though now I feel it coming.

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