The poetry of solitude presses against bare skin like stethoscope, earns a living listening for beat of hidden heart in things. All day all night, rivers run through body, whispering important secrets. No such thing as too busy (you are only too lazy or too afraid) to pay attention. But one day on a windy shore you will lean to pick up loneliness. Like conch shell cradle it to ear; hear the wide blue roar within.
July 25, 2010