what if there were poetry with no prizes
just the moon when it rises
no critical surmises
just the birds, singing
just the birds singing and the leaves drifting
just the stars shining far out on their own
just the breath and the sudden intake,
all your rowing,
going home.
just the word softly spoken
into a light no one can see
just the trip out on a limb
only the hidden mystery
just the song without imposing
just the play without it closing
fine embroidery out at sea
wave to wave
and free as free
just the feeling;
not the fee.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020
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