I look at notes I've taken for future poems. I see scraps but cannot weave them into anything that makes sense.
Some weeks, my creative efforts feel like a barefoot walk on a rocky beach.
But then I look closer, and I see that I've been here before. I've built an altar out of abandoned houses of crustaceans.
I see a glimmer that may or may not be gold.
Even in isolated tidal pools in isolated shelves of coral stones, life bubbles.
I will keep walking, hoping for the time that language breaks through my skull and washes my brain with wonder.
(pictures from our April 2015 trip to Hawaii)
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