I do not consider myself to be a poet. I have friends and family who are great poets. I read their work in awe. How do they do that? I wonder, find a way with words that open whole new worlds for me. I struggle with poetry. And so I’m always surprised when I find myself being poetical. And yet, once in a while, something happens…
A white crane stands in the water,
and waits ‘til I’ve had my fill of his beauty.
Slowly, so slowly he lifts
and spells himself across the sky.
a part of my spirit goes with him