Lost, lost in a sea of change, I dive again. It is a lost world I live in, but not the same lost world you speak of.

 

My heart is still tender and open as the frail soft mouth of a newborn babe. Soft as the fingers that reach up to touch and enter this tender small cavern of an inside shell.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

These shells are here and there. It is the beach I’m on. It is my life. It is my way. The sea is here and gone.

And yet my heart still sings. The hurt is real. The tide goes out. The gray is often here. What season is it?

 

 

I watch. I look. I care to know. I dream. I doubt. I wander. In the snow no matter the season, I wander and want to look out.

 

I fear my eyes don’t see. But I need to move on.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

And back to now. The dog, thank god the dog, I am grounded again. The room. Why am I not as comfortable as my dog?

 

I seem to be comfortable. The room. The striped sofa, a bit faded and dirty, but fine. The warmth always in the room of quiet minds at work, working on words that feed the soul. Is this image moment? Take a second and reflect. Perhaps it’s not?

 

But it is time well spent. On a snowy afternoon at the end of April on Camden Harbor, which is just out the window.

 

I’m sure — only four minutes left. No doubt. But don’t jump. Too quick. Quick step. Straight talk. Linger on image moment. The tulips on the table, all the pens in hand of the others as I type. And Kathrin working too. On what? Maybe just teacher’s note of the bad boy I am, hoping for a “C.” I’m always hoping for a sea of change. A change that will take me away, and give me sight, and let me breathe.

 

 

 

 


 

 

Back home. Straight talk. Back to my world. And just in time.

 

The dog stretches and sniffs and doesn’t care.

 

Can I write the same way?

 

That’s straight talk, right.

 

The sun is coming out. It’s not snowing now.

 

Four sessions left. Three French Hens. One dog a sniffing. Straight talk.

 

The kettle pops. Josh hip-hops. Bill stares out. David paints. Dinner awaits. The days go by. So yes, and Nat, I know his name, moves to his own table. The wind does howl. And the sun is out. The dog is sleeping now, but looks to the window.

 

It’s hard to keep up with it all. So many words so little time.

 

Did I say the flowers are on the table?