when i think of rilke and rodin, van gogh, the one's who continue to inspire, and i want to write poetry and share stories. ... it's like there are all these lovely pieces floating in the air,
berry reds and strawberry pinks,
and i'm not sure how to gather them all up in their sweetness.
and then i wonder perhaps this is not to be done...
what to do?
just stay and let myself be bathed, washed over in this newness,
in a kind of light fluid
stillness and pleased pleasure?