Poetry was clear as a summer day

Poetry was clear as a summer day in November when there had been no rain for twenty days & the secret thoughts the word had ran over all things without shame & it was one of those days when it becomes easy to sail many thousand of miles away from the page but toward poetry or toward one who has a habit of falling in love with words & falling out fast,too, because the word is not made to believe the reality of another's experiences. Stalking the unknown self, approaching Fishing Creek, the word became woman, a totality best known by a poet or a hero, & all the mysterious things a woman wants not to give to people like being taught never to be satisfied or to guard secret places or to draw life in or to pretend to let things happen while actually making them happen the way she wants them to-- such was the day. The word, becoming a woman, neither speeding ahead nor jumping backward & missing what's happening right in front of her-- saw everything. On a November day, clear as a summer morning, the woman saw a fog bank. The beauty of it overcame her. Erogenous as brain, toes, belly were the grey cliffs ahead not yet engulfed. With eyes accustomed to observing, she chose instead, to caress that moment free from all watchers. Written December 4th, 2001 © on Dec 04 2001 06:56 AM PST, Rudy Thomas   0 • 10