Poetry seems to find me on the move. Or maybe it follows me. Either way, I can only commit it to paper if I’m fast enough to turn around and catch it. Otherwise it remains solidly locked away in my periphery.
Skipping Stones in a Swimmer’s Lake
A poem on the brief, parabolic life of a skipped stone, and the regret that leaves with it.
Scribbles 'n Staves 