|Cabin window at Hawkscry|
Run toward your creative life with all your might
even when, and even because, tears stain the very surface,
the fiber of your creative being.
Isn’t this your truest self?
Isn’t this a pristine beach,
more wild than winter, more vast?
Doesn’t the joy breath of your inner life
smell fresher than new-washed cottons hung in the air?
When the long day finally ends,
and I come close to the inner self,
I pull back the veil.
|Lagoon at the Baba Center|
|Piano at Wildacres|
|Sand dune at Ocracoke|