There is always a beginning.
Any writer can tell you that.
There is not always an ending.
These days, there are beginnings.
There are early mornings and few pauses.
There are hours that I barely recognize after they elapse.
There are attempts at attempting and the imagining of imaginations.
There are drives back toward a home we have made and are making.
There is a never-ending string of things.
There was not time for this…this….let’s call it a poem.
But here it is:
Stolen from the tides, a poem.
And now its gone.