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Poem: Calling


I keep sifting sand
through my fingers,
not feeling the grit
of you in my palms.

Did you skip out
to sea like a stone,
each kiss of the water
a nix pulling you under,

or are you always
stretching out beside
me, your shadow
lapping against mine?

The tide nestles
up close to the shore,
its corners tucked
and turned under,

in the shush and pulse
of the waves,
your voice is calling,
me   to   you.
__________________


We took our first trip of the Spring to Carkeek Park yesterday.  Even though it was cloudy, it was still overwhelmingly pretty.



One of my favorite poets always starts each of his books with a poem written to the reader.  I guess that's my hope, too.  That you (yes, YOU) will feel that I've been reading your diary and wrote this poem to spill your secrets.  Or maybe you really are the "you" in my poem.

Meanwhile, in prose land, I have just posted the next chapter of The Culling, and it involves . . . an octopus:
 “An octopus?” Charlotte gawked at the creature.  It rose to the surface, Orville clinging to one of its tentacles.  He struggled to sit up, coughing up water.  Knowing she might as well finish it, Charlotte drew mana into her hands and released it into the water.  The octopus burst as the electric current hit it, ooze showering down on top of Charlotte’s head.  Disgusted, she dropped her hands, allowing the water to retreat back into the earth.
Showers of ooze . . . doesn't that make you want to follow the link?

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