The trouble is: We want more and more
and then more of this.
Only this morning: Relaxing over coffee,
James Taylor singing Fire and Rain,
A tiny black and orange bird at the feeder
we’d never seen before,
the summer light just so
on the bed of daisies out front.
This very morning.
The word I am looking for is savour.
Savour this:
It will not –
oh, it cannot,
last.
Always be a poet. Even in prose.
— Charles Baudelaire.
In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]
A sequence of my poems has been published in a hardcover book entitled The Music of Leaving Poems by Tricia McCallum
More info…
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