A speck of paradise
A miracle abandoned
Only waiting for the clouds to change to gray
Hanging in those dark untitled spaces
Her petals are a useless perfection
Her poetry a moonlit someday

A messy galaxy
A teardrop infinity
Grace doesn't paint amorous feelings
On headaches in the space under the bed
Her flower blooms a bruise
Her worlds are dying words

Weekend watercraft launch across blue bay waters ,
dolphins leading family and sailor out to awaiting nautical arms
Great Herons stand in silent royalty as sandpipers -
scurry their harbor home , enthralling the romantic -
fervor of Charleston , flickers of blessed creativity ,
the endearing gifts of maritime congeniality
Knock thrice upon the Atlantic doorway , write a song
of the placid waterway , count the Brown Pelicans that
ride criss-crossing zephyrs , pen your Carolina wonderment to
last forever* ...

There's a peculiar kind of beauty that can only be experienced
with the innate knowledge that the moment is fleeting
and the most intense beauty can only be seen in
the presence of both light and shadows.
For it’s often in the loss of a thing
that its worth to us becomes
most precious and by
letting it go with
grace we can
best savor
its purest
delights.
Realizing
that the pain
runs so deep only
because the beauty ran
so deep and that without
it having once touched us we
wouldn't now know the emptiness
of its loss, our grief will eventually turn to
thankfulness that it ever touched us at all, and
we will be left awed by the mystery of its haunting.

Her body is a plantation
I worked on for twelve years,
all of them solid, deep
summer, uncleared timber,
backwater, ditch and slough,
times of bad cotton, dark
nights and no crops, hard rain,
riding shotgun over my love.

There are those seasons
Of the life
That a happening unfolds
When a poets table turns
And
The life in the living
Is
An extended group of
Events
Each one
A profound poetic moment
Shaped of divinity and vibration

How  do  the  tourist's
know  I'm  local.
They  are  always  stopping  me.
And  asking  the  way  to  the  lake.
Perhaps  It's  because
I'm  walking  on  my  own.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.