"To be a poet is neither a condition nor a profession. It is a confession."
Monday, February 29, 2016
On the Slick, Black Rock at Monterey Haibun (May 2002)
In the gray fog of dawn, on the rocks at Monterey, I thought of the woman I left, with all the blood and messy entanglements of heartbreak. I also thought about the woman with whom I’d recently fallen in love. When this newly-found romance tried to bloom, pangs of guilt kept my joy confined. Lost in this misty, damp morning, the fog enveloped me, forgave me, encouraged me. Then and there, on the slick black rock, I decided to start a new chapter, the best chapter, of my life.
The view through the bars
might appear discouraging;
it was never locked.