the birds begin their evening declensions,
note by note, the grammar of praise.
The air cools. I close the window to a crack,
the pale sky falling out of sight, yoked
now to darkness. I write at my desk by the light
of a lamp: a small moon turning the tide.
How fathom the mysterious waters
in which my soul swims, finning stars?
The clock ticks but time sleeps
until I return to the bone-white shore,
a wave from far away, heartbeat of the ocean,
tugging at the wagging brown tongues of words.
This poem appeared in the Crosswinds 2019 Poetry Contest Anthology.
Lynne Burnett 
I love this! I can smell and hear the ocean, and so much more. Ok. I’ll make tea and read it again, breathe deeply.
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Oh, Dan, that’s so heartening to hear – thank you!
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Much to savor here … the crack left when “closing” the window … and “at my desk by the light / of a lamp: a small moon turning the tide” tugs me away from electronics, wanting to grab my journal and go sit by such a lamp, write, write, write!
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What more could I ask for, that you would be so inspired, Jazz! Thanks again🙏😘
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Great poem about writing.
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Thanks so much, Michael!
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This is so personal, a moment in time. I love it. Thank you., Lynne
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Thank you! I’m so happy it resonated – indeed it was a special moment in time for me😘
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This is beautiful Lynne. What a weaving of the wild world, soul… and writing. Incredibly soft, powerful image… lamp lit.
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Oh Chris – thank you! I love your weaving analogy and appreciate the deep reading you give the poem!
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