I have not built a house of words

for some time. Instead,

I, a silent nomad,

walk the pages of others’,

running, stumbling into

hotels of experience,

settling down into

bathtubs full of dissipating foam.

But now, I fall into new water,

my own little pond, and feel

the bacteria of thought

ready for evolution,

ready for another big bang.

Still navigating the way,

but I am here again

ready to write my path.

A solitary planet

on the orbit heading to

somewhere called home.

The expanse of sky turns

into a page, fresh like air

in empty places.

Some words appear,

a resupply of oxygen in lungs.

And in between my cheeky teeth

and pointed pen, the new year

shows a new poem

with more on the way.

((Photo of Girl With Candle by Dan Rushton.))

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